crawlersout
by slexenskee
Summary: femHarry/tom. the girl who wanders in and out of space and time. Tom doesn't need to see her to know she's there. As if a part of him intrinsically feels her presence when it shimmers in the air; matter and energy emerging from time and space. He knows nothing of her transient, peregrine existence, but she is still the indomitable center of his universe. timetravel, novella
1. Chapter 1

affelaye series xx

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><p><strong>crawlersout<strong>

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The day Tom Riddle meets Harry Potter is miserable and cold.

In the distance are indeterminable figures wandering in the fog, as if the streets were filled with ghosts tonight. Something swells in the humidity like lament or regret.

No one spares a glance towards the little orphan crouched low upon the store stoop. He is very hungry, but the meager change he has scrounged together from thieving and scavenging are not enough for even a loaf of bread. The thought of having to return to the orphanage is ominous; they will not be pleased once they inevitably discover his disappearance, and worse still he has nothing to show for it.

"Care to share?"

He looks up quite suddenly, caught unawares.

An almost unremarkable girl leans over him, holding out a large and overflowing sandwich. He's never seen anything quite like it, but it smells like everything he's ever wanted to taste.

He draws closer, before recoiling, fixating his narrowed gaze on the girl in front of him.

She is a ways older than him, but not old enough to be considered an adult. She wears a small and sad smile, and it clings to her soft lips like it's been there for some time. He was perhaps remiss in his prior observation, as the muted gray cap atop her head has slid to the side, revealing the most magnificent, luminous hair he's ever seen. It glows like fire in an otherwise indistinct world, as do her eyes, which are a very striking color of green he can't quite categorize.

His gaze flitters back to the sandwich, hesitant.

When her expression doesn't change, he moves for it tentatively.

The paper wrapping is soft and crinkles in his hands as he stares down. It is the both the biggest piece of bread and the most condiments he's ever seen. The food at the orphanage is bland and tasteless, with neither significant color nor texture.

She sits next to him as he devours his food; his hands are clasped tightly against the bread, as if unwilling to ever let it go. She does not make any move to take it back from him, not even as he polishes it off—she stares off into the murky distance as if something of great interest lies across the fog; her umbrella sways listlessly above them both.

"I'm Harry, by the way," She whispers, soft and secretive.

Tom blinks at her, cautious once more.

"I'm Tom," He says, at great length. "Tom Riddle." He adds, almost impulsively. As if he wants everyone in the world to know that he does, indeed, have a surname.

Something grows regretful in her eyes. She smiles anyway. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Tom Riddle."

He waits impatiently by the gates, grasping at the rusting iron with a restless unease. The metal is cool and smooth against his cheek when he leans upon it, fissiparous attention fixated wholly on the world outside the orphanage. His grip tightens intermittently, loosening at equally arbitrary moments.

As if lying in wait.

Tom Riddle does this everyday, much to the congruent confusion of his caretakers; for there never appears to be any reason for him to stand at the entrance so enthusiastically, when almost everyday no one passes through. Alas, perhaps it is not all that strange. He is an orphan: perhaps he waits for a father, a mother, some far flung relative that will never come. The orphanage staff know that there is little hope for a boy his age; both in adoption and in parental guidance. That boy's parents are long gone.

Tom Riddle ignores them, even though he can feel their eyes upon his back.

The street beyond the orphanage is devoid of life; a still image of cropped bushes and withering trees.

He turns around slightly, looking over towards the narrow, saturnine entrance. The foolish bats are gone.

He turns back around:

the wind rushes past him, all at once, and when he opens his eyes Harry is there, staring down upon him contemplatively. It is as if she wanders in and out of the ether, appearing out of thin air and always departing just as quietly. He never bothers to wonder how that is; his excitement always overwhelms him at the sight of her.

"Harry," he says, stupidly, suddenly unable to remember all he wanted to tell the girl, all the words and thoughts he had carefully constructed in his head, in the still moments of the night.

"Tom," Harry returns, smiling indulgently. "How are you?"

"Fine," replies Tom, fast and excited, as if he's been waiting to see her all day, or all month, as it were. "Harry, Harry, I have to show you something!"

"Show me what?" Her voice is warm and delighted; he likes the fondness that sifts between her words—a fondness for him.

He takes her by the hand and drags her into the orphanage's yard, compelled by an incipient urge to keep her close, refuse to let her go.

They kneel in the shade of a large oak, far from the wandering eyes of the caretakers. Tom does not know what their reaction to Harry would be: he does not want to find out. He sits so that she is obscured from sight by the width of the tree, and then he calls to the bushes beyond.

"Come to me," He says, directing his gaze to the forest outside of the orphanage's yard.

Heading his command a young snake obligingly shifts through the grass, maundering towards them.

Tom lifts it without any hesitation, even though he's fairly sure it's a poisonous breed.

"Look!" He cries, as if she could possibly have missed the spectacle. "It's a snake! It came to me!"

"It did," Harry surmises, the advent of a tumultuous expression migrating onto her face.

His enthusiasm dwindles at the sight. It is gone just as quickly as it came; the viridity in her eyes lights up once more—an unending effervescence he's sure he'll never tire of.

"That's amazing," She whispers, and holds her hand out to the snake. It flicks its tongue into the space between her fingers, before it winds itself around her hand.

"Can she speak the language of the snakes?" The serpent directs towards Tom.

But before Tom can answer: "I do," Harry replies, holding the serpent at eye's length. "My name is Harry—how do you do?"

"I am well, thanks." And then it wraps down her arm, to her shoulder, and then onto the ground once more.

Tom gapes at her. "You can speak to snakes too?" His eyes are large and excited.

Harry nods.

"How?" He presses, leaning closer. "Why can we speak to snakes, when no one else can? What does it mean?"

This is the day everything changes.

The leaves drift elaborate patterns over her face, separating the parts from the whole. The flutter of her lashes, a long swoop of glowing chrome hair, the slight tilt to her mouth and the consuming green of her eyes. She leans close; her long hair falls upon his shoulder. He is looking up at her with big, wide eyes. The snake lays almost forgotten.

Harry takes a breath. "Well, that's the thing, Tom," lithe fingers move to brush stray hair from his eyes; a movement so caring and affectionate it startles him, "Me and you, we're—different."

"Different," he repeats, something anticipatory rising in his chest.

"You're a wizard, Tom." She says, taking the very breath out of his lungs, the beating of his heart, the thoughts from his head.

"It's magic," she whispers, low and quiet, like a secret, "what we do… all the strange things that happen around you, it's—

"Magic," he sucks in a breath, a wide, splitting grin overtaking his face; perhaps the most risible expression he's ever had.

That's what it is.

Magic.

Tom is eight, mutinous, and staring determinably out into the monochrome of London. He was seven just yesterday, and eight doesn't really feel all that different.

The orphanage staff hasn't found him yet, though he doesn't think they're looking very hard, if at all. It is bitter cold on the roof, even huddled against a jutting alcove. At least there isn't snow.

It's the only place he has that no one else can take from him. He is very careful to never let anyone see him come and go—to find the secret passageways out the window and across the ledge. He likes his solitude, normally. He prefers it over the incessant and insipid children that reside in this building with him. But that's not true any longer. He prefers his solitude—but there is something else that he prefers even more.

He is not disappointed.

A cold brush of gelid wind tingles against his nose, and he huddles closer into his jacket, wishing for a pair of gloves.

They fall into his lap.

He jolts as something slides next to him.

"Hello," Harry is so very warm as she settles in beside him, staring sweetly off into the distance, as if she can see something breath-taking that he cannot.

She brings her full attention towards him, and his heart skips a beat in excitement. He never wants her to look at anyone like this—he doesn't want anyone else to have the complete consideration of her bright, green glass eyes. She drapes a thick, soft wool blanket over his shoulders, and he cups the gloves in his hands.

She frowns decidedly at him. "You need a hat too. Perhaps a scarf."

He doesn't like anyone telling him what to do, mollycoddling even less, but Harry's concern only elicits a pleasant thrill in his chest.

"I'm fine," he disagrees. And he is. Right now, in this moment, everything is fine.

She gives him a disbelieving look, before shaking her head. With more warmth than he could ever imagine, she draws close to him, touching his cheek lightly as she presses a kiss into his hair.

"Happy birthday," she smiles, and though he cannot see it he can feel it, just at his temple.

No one has ever told him this. No one has ever celebrated this day, and he never saw the reason to do so. What was the point, when there was nothing to celebrate and no one to celebrate with?

He clings tighter to her, refusing to let her go just yet. He is a collector of fine things, and she is the finest thing he has ever laid eyes upon. Far better than the trinkets and toys that he so easily swipes from the other orphans.

"Thank you," he says, but it is almost lost in the wind.

She makes a move to pull away, but he doesn't let her. He doesn't look up, fixated upon the scarf tucked into her strange jacket; gold and red. Mistral wind licks at the ends of her hair; a diffluence drifting around them, ethereal.

She stills for a moment, beneath his shivering fingers, before she pulls him even closer. He shifts, and suddenly he's curled up in her lap, and everything is warm and lovely and wonderful, and when he tucks his nose into the crook of her neck it's as if there is not a world outside of this; smell, sight, sound—they are all swallowed by her presence.

"Oh, Tom," she murmurs, and it so sorrowful, so full of regret.

A wounded noise escapes his lips, and he feels a burn in the back of his nose.

Has he not dreamt of this for so long? The gentle, soothing touch of comfort when he needed it most, the quiet reassurance of a hand smoothing down his hair, the murmur of warm breath to drift him off to sleep. His fingers grasp ineffectually at her scarf. Don't leave, he wants to say. Don't leave me.

Harry is not his mother, and he doesn't think of her as one. She is his friend, his one and only, the indubitable center of gravity to his universe. But he sleeps in her arms that day as if she was, lulled into ambulant dreams by the soft beating of her heart.

"One more year," he thinks he hears her say. "Just one more year, Tom."

He perhaps could have imagined it. He fears greatly in putting hope into a fallacy, and he cannot think of anything more painful than this. Hope is such a fickle, cruel thing. It tugs at his heart when he determinably refuses to let it; he reaches desperately for it when the world is dark and somber. He holds the blanket closer to him, breathing deeply, as if he could still find the lingering scent of her hair in the soft wool.

In the quiet hours of gloaming he picks at the edges of it, brushing imaginary lint off the checkered fabric.

He is mistrustful by nature and incidence; yet he holds such unwavering faith. She'll come back. It's been months—but she'll come back.

When he needs her most, she'll be there.

His faith is not misplaced.

He sits, huddled by the wall in the cold dank of the attic, nothing but cobwebs to keep him company. The wind moves about the room ominously, a prowling groan elicits from the floorboards. He scrunches in on himself even more, tucked away into the corner. He has no food and no light, and he doesn't know when he will have either of those again. Will they lock him up here forever? The other boys deserved their lot, anyhow. They taunt him, call him a baby for clinging so fiercely to his blanket, tell him he's imagining things, that he's worthless and no one will ever come for him. They're wrong, he wants to shout. Someone will come for him.

He has to believe in that, because he has nothing else to believe in.

Another gust of air; it is an unusually cold March. Spring seems an eternity away, and the bitter embrace of winter holds fast upon the land, the orphanage, the corners of the room. He shivers, and is suddenly seized with a violent need for his blanket. He always looked down upon the other orphans who adhered to an object of comfort; a stuffed doll, bunny rabbit, pillow. It's not so much the object as what the object represents.

There is a loud and horrible bang as the wind slams shut a door, far on the other side of the abyss. He jumps, crawling until he is pressed completely into the corner, hiding with the spiders. It howls, suddenly, and the whole orphanage seems to creak and groan at the force. He wants to be anywhere but here.

"If you're scared," her voice is a breath of warmth against him, "close your eyes."

When he opens them there is a little light suspended in the air before him. With wide, enchanted eyes he reaches a hand out to touch it. His fingertips meet no resistance, yet the ball of brightness continues to cast a soft glow about the room. He doesn't need to see her to know she's there. As if a part of him intrinsically feels her presence when it shimmers in the air; matter and energy emerging from time and space.

"Harry," he gasps, disbelieving, looking up and catching the quiet green of her eyes.

"Harry," he cries again, tearing out of his hiding place and ignoring the light for a greater source of comfort.

Her hands rest upon his shaking form; he wants to live forever in the small spaces beneath her neck, the little dips of her collar, the hollow of her throat.

"It's okay," she murmurs into his hair. "Everything's okay."

Nothing is okay, but the feeling of her around him is enough for him to forget that.

Something soft unfurls beneath them, and then Harry is pulling him down onto a downy blanket, until they lay upon it, face to face. He nudges closer, nosing back into her. Her breath is soft against his temple, and he feels the trembling leave him, the fear leaving him in one fell swoop, one shaky exhale. Her hand plays with the ends of his hair; the absent petting is perhaps what he enjoys the most, because it is so thoughtless. As if the touch is so natural that Harry does not even think upon it.

"Go to sleep, Tom," she whispers. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Not anymore. All his cloying fears have dispersed into the quiet spaces of his mind; they will wander their way out, he knows, but for now there is nothing that scares him. Not with Harry beside him, protecting him from the world.

Well, not quite all his fears.

"Harry," he stirs, peering up at her with frightened eyes. "Will you stay?" His hands fist into the material of her shirt.

She smiles down upon him, brushing stray bangs out of his eyes. "I'll be here when you wake up," she promises, without really answering.

But it's enough.

True to her word, Harry is still beside him when he finally stirs from his peaceful sleep. He is still tightly curled against her, nestled in under the cloth of her jacket, warm and unwilling to face a world outside of this diminutive little universe. The watery morning light casts upon her with great affection, gold bleeding down her face and the curve of her neck. Her hair is lit like golden fire. Her hand draws up to his cheek, as if rubbing a smudge of dirt away. He leans into it, so starved for a soft touch.

He yawns, pawing sleepily at his eyes. Her hand drifts away, and even though he is tucked against her he feels cold with the loss.

They are silent for some time, as night wanders into day, and Tom wanders out of his dreams. He fiddles with a lock of her burning hair, emerging back into the world.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," he says, sudden and abrupt. "I—he… I was just so angry, I don't know what happened. I just wanted him to hurt just as bad and then—" he swallows, unable to continue his confession. He doesn't want Harry to turn away from him too; for Harry to think he's abnormal, just like everyone else.

She hums in understanding.

"It's perfectly normal," she replies, to his complete surprise. Normal? "It happens to all of us, when we're young. Accidental magic."

And then, leaning in close with a mischievous smile, "Once, I blew my Aunt up."

His eyes widen in utter fascination. "No way," he marvels.

Harry nods. "She made me so angry—I made her swell up like a balloon, and then she flew out the window! They had to rope her down so she wouldn't float away."

Tom snickers, and then, as if uncontrollable, he begins to laugh in earnest.

"But what happened to her?" He asks, breathless, one he's wiped the laughter out of his eyes.

"Oh, they got her down eventually." Harry smirks. "But she never bothered me again."

"Wicked," he smiles back, utterly charmed at the idea. Just what kind of things can be done with magic?

The possibilities seem endless. He can talk to snakes, make things move when he's very angry, make things hurt when he's angry. And Harry—wanders in and out of space and time as a transient, peregrine existence. She conjures blankets and gloves and little bright lights without any apparent effort at all.

The hand in his hair stills for a moment, and then she's pulling him even closer, until she can brush a kiss to his forehead.

"They're coming for you," she informs, and he feels like someone poured ice water down his back.

He sits up wildly, "No!" Grasping her hand wildly, as if to keep her here forever.

As Harry predicted, he can hear the shuffling of people just below the attic, lumbering up the stairs. He is seized by a violent terror he has never felt before; suddenly the idea of Harry leaving once more is utterly unbearable. He has always prided himself in being far more mature than his peers, but right now he wants to throw a temper tantrum at the very thought. She can't leave.

"Don't leave me," he turns stricken eyes towards her, feeling a horrible burn in the back of his throat.

Her eyes are beautiful and bright and full of remorse. "Tom," she murmurs, sitting up as well.

He still shakes his head wildly, holding her tightly. "You can't!" He cries, refusing to even think of it.

"I have to," she sighs, lament and regret forlorn upon her face.

"But why?" He croaks out. "Why can't you stay with me?"

Harry looks upon him with such unguarded affection it's almost enough to quell his terror. "I can't, Tom," she says. "Just wait a little longer."

The words still his hysteria; in it's place is an unforgiving swell of hope. "But soon?" He presses.

"Soon," She agrees.

A door bangs open.

"Tom?" It's one of the caretakers, plodding up from the trap door. "Tom! I do hope you've learned your lesson, young man."

When he turns back around, Harry is gone, taking with her the blanket, the light, and all the warmth in the world.

It's nearing his birthday again, but the idea of turning nine is far overshadowed by the idea of Harry coming to visit. She wouldn't miss his birthday. She has to be coming soon.

This is what he tells himself when he waits out at the front gates, wearing a meager coat and the gloves she gave for him, wrapped in her blanket. When it's too cold, he lingers by the front windows, looking for her phosphorescent hair, her blinding, beautiful presence. She is the only thing worth thinking about in the vacant, hollowed world inside the orphanage gates.

It's so cold that he thinks his hands will stick to the iron wrought bars if he touched them; so cold that his breath freezes in his throat, his eyes burning with the wind. He should probably head back inside before he catches a cold, but he wants to stay out a little longer. He doesn't want to have to return, seeing the sympathetic but exasperated looks of the caretakers as he once more comes in with nothing to show for his constant vigilance.

"You really do need a hat,"

His breath holds fast in his lungs as he sucks in an excited breath. Warm hands tug something over his hair, and when he looks up he sees Harry's captivating eyes.

"Harry!" He cries, throwing himself at her.

She laughs a bit at his enthusiasm, but her arms find their way around him and then she's picking him up, propping him on her hip as if he's a small child. Well, he supposes he is a small child—perhaps not quite in age anymore but certainly in size.

"Hello there, my little Tomcat," she grins, as he wraps his arms around her neck.

"You're here, Harry," he mumbles into her neck, feeling such relief and delight when he curls his hands around her and feels her tangible presence. She's really here; he's not dreaming this up once again.

"I am," she agrees, quiet. "I'm so sorry it took me so long, Tom."

He shakes his head. "It's okay," he replies. "You're here now."

And then, with a naked fear tremulous in his voice; "Are... are you going to stay?"

Harry gently pulls his face away from its hiding spot in her neck, a tender expression drifting over her features as she says; "No, Tom."

He casts wide, stricken eyes upon her. His hands clench against her, involuntarily.

"This time, you're coming with me."

He looks at her with wonder and disbelief, wondering if perhaps he really is dreaming. It certainly seems like it; all his dreams follow this pattern in some way or another. Harry comes and stays, and then she whisks him away with her to live with her forever. But that's just a dream—Harry is barely an adult herself, and he doesn't know anything about her aside from the fact that she is the indomitable center of his world.

"...really?" He asks, in a small voice.

She frowns slightly. "That is, if you want to."

This is enough to break his shock—he throws his arms around her again, so abruptly that she stumbles a bit to keep her balance. "Yes," he cries, into her hair. "Yes, yes, yes—

He looks up in that moment, and sees the surprised and alarmed expressions of the orphanage staff over the curve of her shoulder. He grips her tighter, feeling a certain vindication in their surprise. One hand holds him fast against her, the other cradling his head. Harry turns around to catch his gaze, turning a pensive, unreadable look to the orphanage and its inhabitants. She turns away then, dismissive.

"Did you need anything else?" She asks, quiet, pivoting back to the street outside the gates.

He shakes his head fervently. There is nothing he holds in legitimate regard in that horrid place; except, perhaps for the blanket wrapped around him, but even that has lost its value in the face of its original owner.

"Okay then," she breathes, walking down the street.

He can hear the shouts and furious movement from the caretakers, no doubt coming to drag him back. He doesn't look up, resting his head against her shoulder.

She turns, pausing behind a tree.

And then, murmuring into his ear, "Close your eyes, Tom."

He does.

All the breath has left him in the face of this new and wondrous world, shimmering in an opalescent light as if from another universe entirely. Harry puts him down and they walk together up a charming brick front entranceway, leading up to an elegant brownstone of fine white embellishments and graceful silver. It sits shoulder to shoulder with more houses, each as pavonine as the next; they are all neatly lined upon a street split by a mall of grass—a small park where men in strange clothes jog along with their dogs, and women push strollers with small children, in bright colors and eye-catching patterns. The street itself is lined with automobiles like he's never seen before; sleek and geometric, glimmering in the morning sun.

Harry unlocks the door, beckoning him inside.

Tom forgets about the outside once he enters the house; it is by far the most beautiful place he's ever seen. He doesn't think his imagination could ever make something so beautiful; dark wood floors, long breadths of glass that filter in a diffusive glow, graceful furniture of white and steel. It's not particularly large, but it is far more spacious than it looked from the outside, and elicits a sense of tranquil equanimity in him.

"Tom?" Harry crouches down to his level, frowning concernedly at him as one hand reaches up to feel his forehead. "Are you alright? Do you feel sick?"

"No," he answers faintly—but he does feel overwhelmed.

Harry does not look convinced. "Why don't we sit you down for a bit," she suggests, leading him to a very comfortable looking alcove tucked against the curtains and bay windows. He sits himself on the white pillows, resting his head against the cool glass. The scenery outside has changed; a horse and buggy passes by them on a dirt path; there are no people out in the park in the lifeless winter, no dogs and strollers.

He wonders if he had imagined all of that.

He feels very out of sorts.

"Harry," he mumbles, as she watches him attentively. "I feel... funny."

"Funny how?" She presses.

He shakes his head, unable to explain it. "Strange," he attempts, feeble and dizzy. "And... fuzzy."

"Tom?" He hears her call out to him, worry prevalent in her lovely voice. But his eyes are slipping closed, and he cannot remember where he is after that, falling into darkness.

He feels like he's floating on something very soft. He's unwilling to wake; he knows intrinsically that Harry is nearby, and her soothing presence holds him in a maundering sense of belonging and content. His bed has never felt so inviting and comfortable—his blanket, never so soft and his pillows never so fluffy. And when he cracks open his eyes ever so slightly to turn and roll over, he sees that his room is grand and opulent, isabelline and ivory and long panels of dark wood flooring.

He sits up suddenly, blinking into a retrograde, flavescent light.

He looks down; his checkered blanket is strewn over him, but everything else is foreign and new. The bed must be twice the size of his old one, and far more comfortable. The room is enormous, as adiaphorous and composed as the rest of the house.

He blinks.

The house.

Harry's house.

He leaps out of the bed, grabbing his blanket as he bolts out of the room. The hallway is also as quiescent and majestic as the rest of the house; the whole thing is far too luxurious for someone like him—is he really going to live here? He finds the stairs and tumbles down them, searching for the owner of this fascinating place. He finds her by the open, steel kitchen. He's never seen such clean, glimmering metal before, and he takes a moment to look longingly at the shine of them before he darts over towards the real object of his fascination.

Harry is perched on a chair at a long table, looking as balletic and seraphic as the rest of the house; she slides in to this tranquil universe as if she was meant to be here. Her attention is engaged on a little metal square that sits upright. As he nears, he sees with curious eyes that one side is metal, but the other is bright and full of lights and letters.

Harry closes the little box, turning towards him with an indulgent smile.

"Hey Tomcat," she greets, airy and light. "Are you hungry?"

He hadn't thought he was, but now faced with the proposition, he finds himself nodding fervently.

She gestures towards one of the chairs, as she rises and moves towards the kitchen. "I'll warn you now," she cautions as she wanders around the great silver appliances, "I'm certainly no chef: I can make about five things."

He clamors onto one of the chairs, blinking wide eyes around his new world. "That's alright," he finds himself saying.

And then, returning his attention to the girl ferreting about for a pan; "Harry..." but he has to pause, swallowing thickly.

"Hmm?" Is her absent reply—she finds the pan, and shuts the cabinet with one of her feet as she leans up to grab something else from the cupboards.

"Am I really..." his voice is small and fragile. "Going to stay with you?"

Harry pauses, leaning up to grab a little bottle and then falling back onto the balls of her feet, a curious expression on her face. "Yes."

This stirs up some modicum of courage within him. "For—for forever?"

She smiles at that. "Well forever is a very long time," she points out, wryly, "but yes, for forever, if you want to."

He nods quickly.

It stills feels as if this is all a dream; he cannot remember a time when he hadn't wished for this, ever since he'd met this strange girl, who always wandered in and out of his life. But he couldn't have imagined everything before him—the wonderful, most amazing house (and only house) he'd ever seen, and his Harry, puttering about the kitchen, humming under her breath.

As he waits and looks around, a mouth-watering smell wafts in from the kitchen. He wants to get a better look at what she's doing—he's never seen anyone cook before, at least, not something of a strange soup-like substance that didn't come out of a large pot—but is equally as curious at the table in front of him. It's full of papers full of text he doesn't understand, though it is in English. He looks longingly at the little metal square, wondering what would happen if he unfolded it. Would it light up in bright colors, like it did for Harry? Was it magic?

His attention snaps away when something is set in front of him with a soft thud. It's a toasted, lop-sided sandwich, looking out of place on the elegant cream-colored plate.

"What is it?" He asks, hesitant.

"A grilled cheese sandwich," Harry answers, taking a bite of her own. She blinks, and then turns around.

Two tall glasses of milk trot diligently towards her raised hand, much to his utter disbelief. They place themselves on the table, one near him and the other near her.

It's the best thing he's ever taste—like butter and cheese and heaven. He tells her this, and an amused smile grows on her face. She says it's super simple to make—she'll show him, some time.

"How do you feel about going out today?" She asks, after they've both polished off their sandwiches. And then, to his hesitant look, "We don't have to; we could stay here today, too."

He bites his lip, debating. "Could we stay here?" He asks, at length.

Harry returns this with an indulgent smile. "Of course."

So they do not leave the house, but Tom finds an adventure awaiting him anyway. Harry insists there isn't much to see, but she is very much so wrong. He's never seen anything like this—it is all so far removed from the orphanage he was used to. Everything looked regal and clean and... expensive. He wonders just how much money Harry has; she never talks about it, but the things in here alone probably cost a fortune, and that's nothing to say of the house itself. There's a small little yard in the back, parted by tall wooden fences of the other houses; there's a deck with chairs, and a pond and fountain, though no water.

Harry called it small, but he can't imagine how she could think that in any sense of the word. It wasn't huge, but it was the perfect size for both of them. He had his very own room, and his own bathroom, and Harry assured him that he could pick out his own furniture. He was bouncing with excitement at the very thought. He couldn't see Harry's room, for the door was closed, but the only other room on the second floor looked to be some kind of office, with great bookshelves full of texts he'd never seen before.

He trots back down to the kitchen when she calls for him, and she's pulling things out of boxes and putting them on plates. Amazing things—food he couldn't ever have imagined.

"What is it?" He asks, excited, climbing onto one of the stools around the counter for a better look.

She throws him a bemused look, "Oh, it's just takeout." She says, finishing up both plates and throwing the boxes and paper bag away.

Again, glasses and silverware and napkins all glide their way to the table, folding and placing themselves until the whole thing looks fit for kings. It's some kind of fish on green leaves. He doesn't like fish and he doesn't like any kind of vegetable but it tastes so delicious he eats it all anyway. His favorite part though, is after they'd both finished, and Harry pulls something out of the fridge—his breath catches in his throat and his eyes grow wide. Ice cream.

She laughs at his expression. "I knew it," she smirks, slyly, putting the bowl down for him to devour it. "Every kid likes ice cream."

He doesn't like being called a kid, but he cannot find a reason to complain when he takes his first bite; he's never had ice cream before. It's just as amazing as everyone says it is.

"What flavor is it?" He looks down; he can't tell from it's pink color.

"Strawberry," she replies, smiling, as she scoops up some from her own bowl. "There's a lot of different flavors; we'll have to try them all until we find your favorite."

This sounds like the best idea he's ever heard.

It's growing dark when he settles in for bed, tucked underneath a soft, downy comforter. He keeps rubbing the material between his fingers, as if to remind himself that this bed, this room, this house—is real. Harry makes sure he's comfortable and settled, even tucking the blankets around him. No one's ever tucked him in before; not with such fondness as Harry, who brushes wayward hair from his face, and leans down to kiss his nose.

"Are you sure you don't want a light?" She asks, when she straightens up.

Tom shakes his head mutinously; he is far too old for night lights.

"Alright then," Harry frowns, but doesn't press the matter. "Well, I'm just down the hall if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," he affirms, quiet, comfortable and warm in his sea of pillows and blankets.

She smoothed a hand over his forehead, again. "Goodnight then, Tom."

"Night, Harry," he mumbles, already feeling his eyes slip closed. It's been a long and exhausting day. Not a bad one by any means, but the excitement has left him very sleepy.

He drifts off then, lulled into alluring dreams.

But even with his exhaustion, he stirs at some time in the night. The sleep leaves him as shadows dance over his bed, the floor, the walls. They're just trees, he reminds himself. Just trees and wind. It's not working all that well. This is Harry's house, and Harry would never let anything happen to him. But this doesn't disregard the fact that this bed is new and this room is new and everything feels foreign to him; in a way that's mildly unsettling in the blackness of the night. He feels wary and out of sorts—and can't find his way back to sleep. He pulls his blanket up to his nose, as if to comfort himself. He liked holding it; it reminded him of Harry, even when it'd been months since he'd last seen her, and the thought of her always gave him comfort.

But as he lies there and breathes in the familiar scent of the fabric, he remembers that the person in question is here. Not in some far flung region his imagination can't even conjure. She's here—just down the hall.

This is how he finds his feet dragging himself quietly down the hallway; blanket in both hands. The hallway seems infinitely longer than it had looked during the daytime; every small sound makes him jump.

He runs quickly to her door, opening it hesitantly.

When he peaks his head in he can't see much of anything through the darkness; just small shifting parts illuminated by the speckled moonlight.

"Harry?" He calls, fearful and unsteady.

There's a rustle of sheets and fabric. "Mmm?" And then he can see her form rising up off the bed, rubbing blearily at one eye. "Tom, is that you?"

"Yes," he replies in a small voice, shy and suddenly feeling very foolish.

"What's wrong, Tomcat?"

He shifts nervously, unwilling to admit to being scared of the dark. It seems so silly when he thinks of it like that—he's far too old to be scared of monsters under his bed. "I—" he fidgets, "I just... "

She must read something in the silence between his words. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He nods, even though that's not quite true. He can't remember whatever he dreamed, only what happened after.

She makes a motion, beckoning him in. "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

He nods again, before tearing away from the door and towards her voice. Her hands catch him as he nears the bed, lifting him up onto it.

It's far too easy to relax into her embrace; all his fears seem foolish and flimsy when her arms are wrapped around him, all slipping away like water in his hands. She makes an indecipherable murmur, rolling to the side and pulling him with her. If he thought his new bed was comfortable, he clearly had never been in Harry's. He's not sure if it's really just that much softer, or that it's just that she's so close to him. And when he noses into the sheets, he can smell the soft scent of her hair in the fabric; so very familiar and comforting.

He's out in a matter of moments.


	2. Chapter 2

**crawlersout**

/ 2 /

Tom hasn't spent a single night in his own bed.

Harry isn't entirely sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, this isn't all that surprising. She's the only person that Tom genuinely cares for—not only that, but he has gone so long without any affection at all. So it didn't surprise her that he latched so quickly and easily onto an object of comfort; or that his attention has moved to the actual source of comfort—her.

She was prepared for that. She was prepared for everything, actually. Perhaps he would be too old, too wary and too jaded to let anyone in. Or perhaps he was already in the makings of what he would be; manipulative and cunning and disturbed at the very idea of love, already so scorned and angry and disgusted by it because he never had any of his own.

Or maybe he wouldn't be too wary and jaded. Maybe he would just be a little boy who doesn't have anyone else in this world but himself.

She looks down upon his peaceful, sleeping form. One hand draws idly to smooth against his hair. He is not at all what she expected him to be. She'd expected a coldness, a deep-seated resentment that has already made roots. He was wary and distrustful of her in the beginning, and undoubtedly he is cold and callous towards others, but it took a surprisingly short amount of time for him to let her in. Harry isn't sure if this is because he was still longing for comfort and affection and hadn't yet learned to resent it, or if it is because they had once shared two parts of the same soul.

She supposes it doesn't matter. But it makes her heart clench every time he turns his wide, fearful eyes towards her—as if he expects her to leave him. It reminds her that he really is just a boy, who is withdrawn and unhappy, and is still secretly wishing for attention; for affection, for love.

Something seizes in her chest again, and then she is leaning forward to place a kiss upon his forehead, holding him close.

_the power the dark lord knows not_

This will not come to pass.

He will know it—he will know love.

/

He wakes slowly and leisurely, blinking into the watery sunshine before he promptly decides he'd prefer to go back to sleep, and snuggles back into the warm nest of blankets he's made. He cracks an eye open, just in case, to make sure Harry is still there. She is.

But she is not in bed. She is exiting her closet, dressed in fine clothes. She appears wary, concerned, and incredibly late.

"Good morning," she smiles quickly at him, as she fastens a scintillating diamond to her ear; he stares at it in wonder. He's never seen anything so shiny and beautiful, except perhaps for the girl in front of him.

And he's never seen anyone wear anything quite like this, but then, he's never met anyone quite like Harry. It occurs to him then that no one looks this presentable to simply sit around in the house. Something uncomfortable grows in his stomach.

"Where are you going?" He frowns—pouting perhaps may be the better description.

"I'm going to—" But then she falters slightly, as if something occurs to her. She pauses, before sitting on the bed beside him.

"I'm going to work, Tom." She explains, running a hand through his hair. He sits up, still frowning at her.

He blinks, once, utterly confused. "Why?"

This startles a laugh from her. "Well—because I need to, silly." She grins. "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know."

But girls don't work, he wants to say. He is promptly reminded that Harry is not like other girls, or like anyone else at all.

"Oh," is what comes out instead. "When will you be back?"

"In the afternoon," she replies.

That's a long time from now. His frown deepens.

Harry sighs. "I'm sorry, I wish I didn't have to leave you for so long..." She looks at him, smiling quietly. "But you're very mature, aren't you? I know you can take care of yourself."

Tom doesn't know what to say to that.

He agrees; he is very mature. He's always thought so. And it's not as if he cannot be left to his own devices—for most of life thus far he has had no one to lean on but himself. He is not incapable of learning things on his own.

But he doesn't want to voice this all aloud; he doesn't want Harry to leave.

She leans in to give him a quick kiss to the forehead. "I'll be back before you know it."

That is not true at all.

"Harry," he whines quietly, not okay whatsoever with the idea of her leaving for so long—not when he just found her.

But perhaps she had predicted this behavior, for she pulls something out of her drawer. It's not that shiny little metal box; it is a thick and archaic tome. A book. He is unwillingly ensnared in his own curiosity, shuffling closer to get a better look. A very thick book indeed.

"What is it?" He whispers, unable to stop himself.

"Hogwarts: A History." Harry answers. And then, to his unspoken question; "Hogwarts is a school—a magical school. You'll be going there soon."

He lights up at that. "I will?"

"Oh yes," she nods. "Your name has been written down there probably since the day you were born. But this magical school doesn't start until eleven years old."

So two more years then. That's not as disappointing as it normally would be, as Harry turns the book into his hands. He wonders what kind of knowledge he'll find in here.

"There's food in the fridge, okay?" She stands, turning to look at him with concern. Her concern is unfounded; he is already ensnared in his own little world.

/

Harry leaves every day promptly at eight-thirty in the morning, and returns just as punctually at five o'clock in the afternoon. Except for on Saturdays and Sundays—those days he has her all to himself.

It is Saturday today, and his first time actually leaving the walls of this lovely home. Harry is beside him, though, so he has nothing to be afraid of.

The world outside the big bay windows looks sunny and windy. He wonders absently if he'd dreamt what he'd seen before; the strange cars, and strange people, all the very tall buildings that peered over the hedges of houses. None of those are here now.

"You ready?" Harry looks down at him.

He nods.

Tom realizes they're not in London anymore when they arrive at their first store, and he notices that everyone talks funny.

"Why does she say it like that?" Tom asks fervently, when the associate leaves them to shop alone.

Store might be too succinct a description; this is a sprawling, palatial building full of opulence and luxuries. Everything smells of money, including the people. It makes him very uncomfortable. Harry is leisurely settled on a velvet settee to his side, looking as if she belongs here, with all this majestic beauty, all the perfection.

"Say what, Tom?" She returns absently; she is inspecting a pair of shoes for him. They shine strikingly in the lighting. The store associate said it was top-quality leather.

"Everything," he returns, drawing closer to her as his eyes dart around. "She talks so strangely..."

Harry blinks, before she laughs. "Oh, Tom," she smiles mirthfully. "We're the ones who talk strangely here."

He blinks rapidly.

"We're not in London anymore," she confides. He feels his mouth drop open in surprise. "Or Britain, for that matter."

He feels his mouth work, but no words can make it through the shock that gathers in his throat. The sales attendant returns, Harry asks for about a half dozen shoes, all in the same size. Tom has never had that many shoes before. Tom is not paying this any attention at all; he is still stuck on the idea of not even being in London—the only place he has ever known—let alone the British Isles.

"Where are we?" He gets out, finally.

Harry smiles at him; there is perhaps some indistinct quality to it, vacuous and capricious. "Very far away." She replies.

Very far away indeed.

Tom begins to unbend a bit when it becomes clear that no one in this place is looking at them with anything besides pleasant indifference. He perhaps even begins to enjoy himself, walking around and feeling all the garments they pass; watching himself in the squeaky clean reflection on the floor; the long stately mirrors, Harry by his side, collecting all sorts of attire for him. The idea that he can point to something, that he can want something and _have it_ has yet to fully sink in.

They leave the store in merry laughter and many brown paper bags. Harry holds his hand as they wander down the street, first for lunch, and then for ice cream. Tom tries chocolate this time; he thinks he might like it even more than strawberry. He spends some time pressing his nose against the display at the cafe, eyes wide and completely fixated upon all the unimaginable desserts presented on the other side. There are so many, more than he'd ever seen before, even in picture books, in all sorts of colors and sizes, decorated with succulent cream and topped with bright pops of color. Harry says they can bring something back; he chooses a small deep red cake with layers and layers of frosting. A raspberry chocolate red velvet cake was what Harry called it. Tom gets to hold it as they walk, a little package tied up in string. He is very excited to open it.

But its when they're back at home sitting down to devour their prize that Harry brings up something that surprises him.

School.

"Muggle school?" He reiterates. He likes using that word, it reminds him that he's different. That he's magical.

Harry pauses, thoughtful. "Yes and no," she replies at length. "They teach curriculum similar to muggle school, but they also teach witchcraft."

"So I'll learn magic?" His eyes sparkle in excitement. "Will I get a wand?"

"Yes," Harry answers, making his very breath catch in his throat at the idea. Magic. He'll finally get to preform magic.

It's been many days since Harry had introduced him to Hogwarts: a History, and afterwards, to 'first year' studies books and a few more difficult texts when he asked of it. He was especially fascinated with defense against the dark arts: the more on the dark arts and black magic than defense against them. It struck his curiosity; it was the sort of stuff that the other children would whisper about to scare the others, back in the orphanage. Ghost stories, scary stories. It seems like a lifetime ago.

"It's called the Wolcroft Bassett School of Magic and the Arcane Arts." She continues on. "It's one of the most prestigious schools here in Boston—in the whole world, actually." She adds.

Tom thinks this over. "Is that why we're here? In America?" He asks, suddenly. "You said Hogwarts doesn't start until I'm eleven... but this school starts earlier?"

"That's correct," Harry agrees. This is why they're in America. Though not only for that, but for protection in the war to come—but Tom doesn't know of that.

"...It's a good school?" He repeats, in a small voice.

"Very much so." The young woman nods. "Like I said, one of the best."

After a moment where he ponders this in silence, she frowns. "Listen Tom, it's okay if you don't want to go this school. Or even if you don't want to go to school at all; I have no doubt that you're more than capable of teaching yourself what you need to know until you go to Hogwarts." And then, "And if you _do_ want to go, and you end up liking it—you don't have to go to Hogwarts, if you'd prefer to stay."

Tom mulls over all this new information as he takes another bite of cake. This is his second piece—his second piece of cake, ever—and he doesn't think he plans on stopping any time soon.

"It's up to you," she reassures.

"Why Hogwarts?" He asks, suddenly, visibly surprising Harry.

He looks up. "You said my name has been written to attend Hogwarts since the day I was born. And... and we came all the way here for this other school, right? For Wolcroft?"

She nods slowly.

"So what is it about Hogwarts?" He presses. "Why would we go back if Wolcroft is such a good school—why... do you want me to go back?"

She looks down at him with a sorrowful, forlorn expression. "Oh, my little Tomcat," she sighs with a small smile, placing her fork down. "Always so very clever."

He feels something warm and bashful gather in him at that, a pleased smile finding its way to his face.

"Hogwarts is a very big part of your history," explains Harry. "It's a very good school as well—what they teach there is a little bit different than what you'll learn here, but Wolcroft and Hogwarts are equally good institutions."

He nods, absently, waiting for the inevitable second part of this statement. He is not disappointed.

"But Hogwarts... is special to you," she hedges. "It's in your blood."

At the mention of this, he perks up. "My blood?" And then, leaping to his feet, feeling his heart lodge in his throat, "Harry—do you know my parents?"

She is watching him very carefully.

"Do you remember the houses from Hogwarts: A History?" She asks instead, as if on a completely different tangent.

He blinks. "Of course." He answers promptly. "There are four; Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw."

"That's absolutely right." She gifts him a tiny smile. He beams back at her, pleased. "And they're named that because—...?"

"Because those were the four founders of Hogwarts." Tom finishes immediately, "Salazar Slytherin, Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw."

"Right again." She agrees, nodding. "Have you thought about what house you'd like to be in?"

He frowns ponderously. "Slytherin." He decides, after a beat.

Her small smile turns into something full of lament and regret. "There's a reason for that." She returns, quiet.

His gaze flitters back up to her, curious.

"Tom, Salazar Slytherin was your ancestor." He feels like all the breath has been knocked out of him.

"...What?" He hears himself reply, faintly.

"That's why you can talk to snakes—why you feel an affinity for that House. You come from a very long line of witches and wizards that are descendants of Slytherin."

"I... I do?" He swallows ineffectually, feeling numb and breathless. His eyes trace the world around him, as if reminding himself that it still exists, that he's still here. But even as an overwhelming awe and wonder overtake him, a thought occurs to him, and he snaps his eyes again to Harry, narrowing them, "You know my family?" It is less of a question and more of an accusation.

"Not personally," she replies quickly. "But yes, I do know of them. And I don't want to keep that from you, Tom. You deserve to know where you come from: who you are."

He is silent for some time, mulling this over. His thoughts turn calculative; what does this mean for him? What does this mean for Harry?

"Is that why you took me?" He asks, hollow and unreadable. "Because I'm a descendant of Slytherin?"

"Not at all." She insists, touching his chin and gently tilting his face up to look at her. "Tom, I wouldn't lie to you. You mean so much more to me than that."

He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, abandoning his cake to throw his arms around her. He feels like crying for some reason, and it blindsides him more than annoys him. He's never felt like crying before—he's never been overly emotional about anything. He always thought he was far too mature for that sort of thing. But Harry always seems to elicit a certain childness in him, as if he feels comfortable enough around her to let it out.

He sits in her arms for quite a while, saying nothing, enjoying the affectionate petting as she runs a hand through his hair. "Can you tell me about them?" He mumbles, in a voice so small it is almost inaudible.

This close to her, he can feel the tension in her shoulders seize up at his words, and also the immediate release of it as she considers a response. "Of course," she replies, her inflection difficult to decipher. "Well, your mother belonged to a family referred to in England as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. And they were called that because they were one of the remaining twenty-eight families to be one-hundred percent pure-blooded."

"Pure-blooded?" Tom repeats, and his innocent expression almost crumbles her resolve.

"Yes. It means that every person in your family is magical." She explains. "Your mother belonged to one of these families—the Gaunt family."

"Oh." He says. "Do they... are they—still around?"

"I'm not sure," Harry confesses. "But I know she had a brother and a father. They too were the last descendants of Slytherin."

Tom doesn't say anything for a long time, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, and deciding mutinously that he would like to spend the rest of his existence here. He doesn't know how to feel about this. It's strange to think that he... comes from something. He has spent so long dreaming up a family that it is disorienting to realize that they do, in fact, exist.

Perhaps what is more concerning is how detached he feels from them. He has spent so long wishing for a family to call his own, dreaming up so any scenarios; a large family, with a sprawling family tree and dozens and dozens of cousins and so many aunts and uncles that he could never remember their names. He could have never imagined his real family: not nearly so large, but far more famous. Legendary, in their own right.

Far stranger—he feels... unsettled at the thought.

Harry is his family. He doesn't like the idea of having any other. She may not be his mother, but she is still his everything.

/

In so many ways, Tom is already so different.

He is open and expressive—when he wants to be, at any rate. She's noticed that more and more he becomes withdrawn and obscure, masking what he feels behind a face of neutrality. He forgets to do that quite often when it's just the two of them, though, leaving him as he truly is, a curious, and perhaps a bit shy little boy.

Though he's not all that little anymore.

And in many ways, he hasn't changed at all.

Harry can still see the person he will become in small moments of clarity; when he is hunched over a large text; when a fierce and volcanic anger stirs in his eyes; when his sharp tongue cuts through flesh and bone; when he manipulates the other children in the neighborhood to do as he likes. Harry can't deny all of the existence of these traits, even if they never turn their ire to her.

But she had expected this. She had expected that the darkness would be an intimate part of him—not all of him, she wouldn't allow it this time, but this didn't disregard the fact that it was still an intrinsic part of his nature that perhaps could never be changed. And perhaps it could never be changed—but it may be... harnessed, in a more productive manner.

That's why she chose this school, out of all others. Why she brought them both to such a distant land. Why _she_ was in such a distant land; a land so distant it didn't even reside in the same dimension as her own.

For one, Wolcroft started education at five years old, just the same as primary school for Muggles, and this was something she staunchly agreed with. The idea of starting even the basics of education at eleven never seemed particularly logical to her, and though she wanted Tom to have an education prior to Hogwarts, she didn't know if she wanted it to be purely muggle. She'd thought she would simply have to teach him on her own—but an even better alternative had presented itself.

Because Wolcroft had no compunctions against the Dark Arts, and this was another reason she was so adamant Tom go there. Maybe she couldn't curb his innate desire for black magic, or his hunger to delve into it as deep as he could—but she could at least provide him with enough knowledge to perhaps stop him from diving too deep. At least here he would be taught it in a unprejudiced and theoretical manner; not only just the spells themselves but the dangers that accompany them.

But Harry was getting ahead of herself.

She couldn't do any of that without getting him a wand first.

Tom is practically bouncing on his toes at the idea of finally getting his own wand. He's used Harry's a few times, with her supervision, but that was only for little spells; cleaning charms and his favorite, _lumos_. That was the spell Harry had used, when he had felt so lost and alone; it was the first spell he'd asked her to teach him. And though he has learned a great many more, some more explosive and eye-catching than others, he still feels it is the most lovely spell of them all.

"Alright," Harry kneels down, fixing up the buttons on his coat. He could do it himself, but he lets her clasp them all up, adjust his scarf and fix his hat. He likes it when she fusses over him. "So I'll floo us this time, together, so that you can see how to do it."

"You said you just throw the powder and say the address." He whined. "I can do that!"

Harry laughs. "Oh, Tomcat, I'm sure you can. Listen, I thought that same thing on my first floo travel; it did not work out very well for me. So just humor me this once, okay?"

"Okay," he drawls, sounding far more reluctant than he actually is. He doesn't care about how they get there, he just wants to get there.

Tom doesn't remember how he found himself so far across the world from where he started. All he remembers is Harry's arms around him, her soft voice telling him to close his eyes. And then he was here. Whatever had happened; they most certainly did not use a fireplace.

She takes his hand, throwing a handful of bright green powder into the empty fireplace. It roars to life quite suddenly, filled with emerald flames.

"Ready?" She looks down at him. He tugs her in almost immediately.

"Let's go!"

Diagon Alley is as amazing as he'd thought it would be. Harry says there's a magical town just like this in Boston, but they haven't been there yet. There are shops full of everything his imagination could ever conjure; strange creatures and birds; broomsticks that fly; bubbling cauldrons placed at the storefront windows; children run past with bright balloons that change every so often into animal shapes.

He holds Harry's hand very tightly: he doesn't want to get lost. They meld into the throngs of people, and he stares for a rather rude amount of time at every single one of them. They don't look so much different from other people he's seen, but for some reason, he feels as if he can tell the difference between these folks and Muggles.

He forgets about all the people when they enter their first shop; a lopsided counter, a very small foyer, and what seems like endless boxes piled atop each other in haphazard piles along all the walls.

He jumps, startled, when an old man swings his way into view on a sliding ladder. "Well hello there, how do you do?" He greets, pleasant.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Ollivander." Harry replies.

His brow raises. "Americans?" He looks at the two of them.

"For now," Harry smiles, returning back to a familiar accent. "We're here for a wand, please." She cuts through the formalities, thrusting him forward with a gentle hand at his back.

"Is that so?" The old man raises a brow at them both.

Tom is practically vibrating in his excitement, looking around the shop with wide eyes.

"Yes—phoenix tail, eleven inches, yew." Harry informs.

The man blinks.

Harry does not give an explanation, only a bland smile.

Ollivander turns back around, shuffling into the bowels of his shop without complaint. Fortunately Tom is far too enamored with all the wand boxes to have noticed such a strangely succinct explanation for an event that is supposed to be rather long and complicated.

The wandmaker drifts back to the front of the shop soon enough, holding a dusty box that appears to have been unused and unmoved for some time.

Tom bounds up to the counter, barely tall enough to clasp his fingers on the surface and bring his eyes level to watch.

Ollivander carefully opens the box, setting aside the top, and hands the wand to Tom. The moment he grasps it in his hand it shoots out happy green sparks.

Ollivander looks completely taken aback. His thoughtful eyes turn to Harry; Harry, again, only offers him a pleasant, but detached smile. His gaze turns back to the boy staring at the wand in wonder.

"Well, would you look at that," his brows raise in surprise. "And what did you say your names were?"

"I'm Tom Riddle." Tom says, imperious but thoroughly distracted by the wand in his hand.

"Hello then, Mr. Riddle." Greets Ollivander. "Are you going to Hogwarts this year?" He asks, amiably.

"No," Tom responds, before Harry can think to stop him. "I'm not old enough yet."

His cordial expression falters, and he frowns at Harry. "Is that so?" He sighs. "Well, wizards aren't allowed to have a wand until age eleven."

Tom's attention snaps back to him, expression dawning into horror.

Harry frowns. "Why not?"

"Underage Magic Laws," he quips. "Children can only get their wands when they're going off to school."

Harry gives him a baleful look in response. "Children do underage magic all the time, with or without a wand."

"I agree with you," he sighs. "But unfortunately, the matter is out of my hands."

Tom's look of distress is almost enough to make Harry stun and obliviate him and then just take the wand anyway. But then the boy drops the wand back onto the counter and darts out the door.

"Tom—" But the door has already closed. Without a backwards glance she follows him.

He hasn't gone very far; he stands a few meters away from the entrance, arms folded, facing away from her. Harry takes a deep breath, walking over to him.

"I'm sorry Tom, I didn't know there was a law for that." She apologizes.

Tom doesn't look at her. "It's not you fault, Harry." He insists, hollow.

Harry bites her lip. Though he feels cheated and angry, he feels worse knowing that he's making Harry feel bad too. The thought doesn't stop him from pouting mutinously out into the distance. The world is always unfair to him; he should know this by now.

But Harry always has a way of tipping the scales. He should know that by now too.

Harry frowns at him, brushing hair out of his eyes as she crouches next to him. "It's okay Tom, we can come back and get it when you go to Hogwarts." She reminds. "You'll be old enough before you even know it."

"But what if they sell it off by then?" He returns fearfully.

She laughs softly. "They wouldn't: the wand chooses the wizard, you know. So it'll still be here when you're old enough to go to Hogwarts."

He pouts mutinously, saying nothing.

"In the meantime," she starts, with a fine little smile and a twinkle in her eye. "Why don't we find you another one, huh?"

"We can?" He asks, skeptical.

Harry nods. "Absolutely. Not all schools start at eleven." She holds out her hand. "Why don't we go back home, get some ice cream, and then go to the biggest magical sector across the pond?"

This sparks Tom's interest, and he readily takes her hand as she straightens up. "Where is it?" He asks, excited.

Harry laughs. "Why, in New York of course!"

/

Tom has never been to New York. He'd never been to America before either—until Harry whisked him away, that is—but he'd heard all the stories. Almost all of them revolved around this city. It was everything he'd imagined it to be. It was so _big_.

Harry floos them into a dingy little pub full of queer-eyed elderly folks, who all turn when they exit the fireplace. Harry pays them no mind, tugging him out of the restaurant. Even though they're in the magical part of the city, he can still see the muggle part; the vast, endless metal buildings that stretch into the sky like silver arms, gleaming in an opulent light. Everything is so big and tall; it makes him feel very small in comparison, as if he is walking among the feet of giants.

They enter another wand shop, and when Harry explains that he'll be going to Wolcroft's next term, he's ushered into a plushy chair and an attendant comes back with boxes and boxes of wands. It looks nothing like Ollivander's; small, cramped and homey. This one has a stuffy air of corporatism, and is far cleaner and organized. He tries each and every one, but none of them felt like the one he'd found at Ollivander's. Harry had given him an apologetic look, and told him that he most likely won't find one that will compliment him as well as that one. Tom found that very odd; Harry's wand felt perfectly fine to him. But as he swished wand after wand into the air, he started to think that perhaps that wasn't normal.

He eventually does find a wand, but the event is decidedly uneventful and dulled with the memory of the other wand, waiting for him across the ocean. Seeing another magical city cheers him up somewhat; the two are very different in such small ways. Where Diagon Alley was long and winding, dipping into intricate turns at arbitrary intervals, growing smaller or wider at equally arbitrary moments, New York City is spacious and wide. The streets are similar to those of the muggle side; there is even room for automobiles. He doesn't see very many of those, but he does see quite a few carriages, drawn by startling horse-like animals. But even all of this does not lighten his spirits.

Still, Harry seems to notice his crestfallen mood, for she directs him down another street, saying there's another shop they should stop by before they leave. Tom nods, not paying much attention, following her lead.

She ends up bringing him to a Magical Menagerie—full of animals that he couldn't have even thought up in his wildest imaginations. There's a three-headed skrewt; a beautiful striped bird with four eyes; a small tiger with a chameleon head, and a lion with wings. A _horse_ with wings, even, in its own stall in the back. Harry called it a Pegasus. All of them are for sale: most of them are illegal.

Harry bypasses all the strange mammals, aves, fish and amphibians and heads to the reptile section. There are a great many curious lizards, but Tom moves right for the snakes.

He presses his nose against one of the enormous glass terrariums, just watching the creatures behind it. He lifts his head up after a beat. "Harry," he starts, hesitant. "Are we—I mean, can I—

"You can pick out any one you want," Harry reveals, smiling as his eyes grow wide. "But only one, okay?"

"Okay." He nods, excited. One is more than enough.

It takes him forever to decide on a particular snake. Harry seemed surprised when he actually entertained the idea of the winged lion instead of a serpent, but he dismissed it after remembering that he couldn't talk to the lion like he could the snake. There are so many species, and they all do different things and come in different colors. Harry wanders around while he carefully considers the snakes in the many terrariums, moving to converse with a little tropical, neon green snake on the other side of the store. He scrunches his nose in thought, before eventually coming to a decision.

"Harry," he calls. "I think I know which one I want."

Harry maunders back over, sparing the many tanks a brief glance. "Alright. Which one?"

"That one." Tom points to the biggest snake, in a tank far in the back.

Harry blinks rapidly. "Oh." Is all she says, staring at it with a complicated expression. Tom thinks he can see a bit of alarm in there, and frowns.

"Or is he too big?" Tom would feel a bit more mutinous about it, but it's true. It's a rather big snake.

"Oh, no, he'll be fine." Harry shrugs. "He'll be harder to take care of than the others, though."

"That's okay." Tom decides. "I don't mind; I'll take good care of him."

Harry looks down at him appraisingly, before finally she calls to one of the sales assistants. The boy doesn't even bat an eyelash when she asks for the big one in the back, and Harry looks equally as indifferent when he tells her the price for it (which is no small sum). Tom stares up at the adolescent boy with a scowl; he doesn't like how the boy looks at Harry, or how close he's standing to her. Even worse, Harry doesn't even seem to notice. She smiles when he makes a joke, and makes polite small talk as he rings them up.

"Do you want a... bag for that?" The boy stammers, but seems to realize how ineffectual that's going to be, considering the size of the snake.

"That's alright, we'll take him like this." Harry replies, reassuring.

Tom beckons the snake to him once the attendant leaves, and it slides up his arms and drapes itself over his shoulders—a couple times, because it really is quite big. He has to hold most of him in his arms.

Harry giggles at him. "You look like you're wearing him as a shirt." She observes.

"He's so big!" He exclaims, looking down at all the long ropes of scales. They are so pretty though; the scales are a cream color with bright banana yellow spots. He sort of looks like an inverted giraffe.

Tom looks up at her with big eyes. "Can I name him Spot?" He asks, as they wander back to the floo network.

This derives a bark of laughter out of her. "Sure," she enthuses. "Spot the lethal, deadly giant Anaconda. Why not?"

Tom returns his complete and unwavering attention back to his new snake, petting it fondly. The thing is at least three times larger than him.

"Are you sure you don't want to name it something more... formidable?" She hazards, looking down at them with no small amount of bewilderment.

Tom shakes his head. "I like Spot." He proclaims. Spot seems to like this to, for he drapes himself around Tom's head and flicks his tongue near his ear.

"_What do you think, Spot_?" Tom turns his head to look at him; Harry notices with slight trepidation that their heads are about the same size.

"_I like Spot,"_ Spot agrees. Harry doesn't think Spot actually knows what spot means. Well, she supposes if they're both happy there's nothing to worry about.

/

Harry isn't exactly sure how she ended up like this, but somehow her enormous bed has gotten crowded. Tom doesn't take up much space; he always curls up into a little ball when he sleeps, and doesn't move much. Meanwhile, Spot is almost six meters long and expected to grow even bigger—he folds himself in many layers at the base of the bed like a big, scaly dog. He also likes to move when he gets cold, and his favorite place to move is right on top of her. At least he doesn't shed, Harry consoles herself. Well, he doesn't shed _hair_. She hopes she doesn't start finding dead snake skin in all the corners of the house.

Fortunately Tom is completely enamored with Spot, and Spot seems equally as enamored with him, so he is kept entertained during the long hours she's away. She wishes she didn't have to leave him, but she really does have a job, and really does need to work. She can't sit around and drain her family vault forever; all that flowing gold will run dry eventually if she does. And Spot, combined with all his books, distracts him from looking in to deeply into where she goes.

Because its certainly not to the offices down the street.

"I can see why you like this place so much," Ron offers, as he devours his lobster sandwich. "These things are amazing! I'd live here too if I could have these everyday."

Harry rolls her eyes, biting into her steamed pork bun. "I'm not actually a fan of those—or the clam chowder, to be honest."

Copley Square is full of tourists, skateboarders, broke college kids and hipsters, all crowded into the little mall of grass and adding noise to the already noisy city. Ron has proved himself to be a food truck enthusiast; he comes almost every day at lunch and drags her around to try them all. Sometimes for more than lunch; she'd left the building one day to see him waiting for on the benches by the street, holding an alarming green smoothie. Harry doesn't mind, she's pleased he comes and visits at all. Hermione does as well, but it's far more difficult for her, considering her new occupation as intern/assistant/ baby-sitter for the new Head of the Magical Creatures department,

"Why move to Boston if you don't like lobster?" He retorts, scandalized, mouth full of said crustacean.

Harry scowls. "Gross, Ron."

He swallows, wiping his mouth. "What?" He protests. "I mean, it's true!"

But she's already explained to Ron why she's here, and what she's doing. They'd gotten Bill to do the wards on her house, after all. Of course, Bill didn't know about the house's... special properties. Namely, that it manages to sit in completely different time periods in completely different dimensions. But Ron does, so there's no reason for him to be so flabbergasted, other than the fact he's probably already forgotten.

He's equally as flabbergasted at the idea of her having a job.

"A muggle job, at that." He adds, looking completely and sincerely boggled by it. "I don't get it. Why have one if you don't need one? Why a muggle job—and I mean, how'd you get it anyway?" And then, peering at her with wide, fascinated eyes, "What do you even do in the muggle world?"

It appears the Weasley fascination with Muggles is genetic.

Harry heaves a great capitulation. "Investing," she reminds, patiently. "And I do need one; I can't squander my fortune away forever. And you know very well why I wanted a muggle job; I'd prefer to live my life in apparent anonymity."

He nods sagely. Harry didn't even bother to try for an Auror position when the war was over; she didn't even both with wizarding London, at all. Not after the first few times she'd gone and found herself overwhelmed with people, to the point Auror's had to guard her against the crowds,

"Well yeah, but how'd you end up here?" Ron gestures to the building behind them, blinding blue in the sunlight, towering over them, everyone else in the square, and every other skyscraper in the city. At its feet a whole bunch of tourists have their cameras held up and are snapping away. "Hermione says its super prestigious—or maybe she said pretentious?—and very difficult to get in to."

That, she herself is a little flabbergasted by. "Well, you know Ted—Andromeda's husband, right?"

"Right." Ron moves on to his chips, munching with zeal and appearing greatly distracted.

"Well, his father is an executive here. A... a very high up executive. Anyway, he's the reason why I work here."

"But do you like it?" Ron pressed. "Uh, investing, or whatsit."

Harry looks out to the sprawling gardens, and then the city unfurling behind it. She and Ron have parked themselves at the base of a staircase belonging to a rather famous church she can't remember the name of. Either way, it's still in the square, it's close to her office, and the stairs provide dozens of places to sit that doesn't have the hazard of dog poop on it. Not to mention, most of the food trucks in the city park themselves around the curb during lunch time, and Ron has his fair share of the city's finest food trucks all within walking distance.

"Yeah, I do." She answers honestly.

She doesn't much like the money handling and such, though she balks each and every time she realizes just how much money everyone's tossing around like candy. But she does like meeting all the people, and hearing their stories, and getting to know them and why they're starting their dream companies. Sometimes Harry wishes she was as inspired to do something meaningful as they are; then she is reminded that she has already done something meaningful, and starting a company would give her grey hairs and take years off her life from stress alone.

Ron shrugs. "Well then, I guess that's a good thing. Congratulations?"

"A little belated," Harry notes, amused. "But thank you."

"And uh—you know. The kid. How's he?"

"Tom is fine." Harry chuckles. "Very inquisitive and intelligent."

Ron blinks, "He's good, though?"

"Oh yes—he's actually rather sweet." Harry observes; it still surprises her.

"And the forties?" He presses onwards. "Or wait, is it the thirties? Well, whatever, you know what I mean. How're they? What are the people like?"

"Strange," Harry admits. "There's a lot of things that are normal there that people would think is utterly foolish now. And anything from here is totally bizarre to them."

Ron makes a noise of understanding as finishes his chips. Harry thinks he might have something to say on the subject, but then he simply shrugs and asks; "You going to eat those?" He points to her crisps. She shakes her head, and he pounces on them.

"Mmrgh—Oh yeah, by the way," he says around a mouthful. "Bill wanted me to ask about the wards. How're those doing?"

"Quite well." She replies. And then, after a pause. "I think they are at least. To be honest, I don't know enough about wards to tell. But I haven't gotten stuck in either time period yet, and I can go back and forth smoothly, so I'm assuming they're okay."

"Sounds okay to me," remarks Ron. "I'll pass the message on."

He leaves soon after that, begging off because Molly has summoned all her children to the Burrow for dinner. He looks quite horrified at the very thought, but leaves promptly anyway. Harry supposes she should probably get back in too, far past whatever hour or so she usually takes for lunch.

When she gets home, she arrives just in time to hear a voice yell, "_Expulso_!" And then she is reflexively throwing up a _protego_ as an enormous pillow explodes into a winterstorm of feathers.

She releases her shield charm, looking up as all the feathers drift back onto the floor. A few catch in her hair. She turns to Tom, the main culprit in this dilemma. He is sitting cross-legged on the sitting room carpet, looking quite sheepish.

"Sorry," he says, sheepish, before waving his wand again. "_Evanesco_," he whispers, and all the feathers disappear.

Harry isn't actually mad at all, if anything, she's impressed he's already casting so many spells so easily. He has a book in his lap, one she's pretty sure came from her second year. "Having fun?" She teases as she wanders into the kitchen.

He nods bashfully. "There's so many spells to learn," he confesses. "I want to know them all—but I try not to mess up the house."

Harry tosses him an amused glance over her shoulder. "_Try _not to?" She echoes.

He blushes, looking somewhat chastised.

"Oh, it's alright Tom," she laughs. "Practice all you want. But try the more explosive ones in the backyard, okay? I don't know what we'd tell the neighbors if you blew a hole through the wall. Now what do you want for dinner?"

He pauses for a moment. "Spaghetti and meatballs!" He exclaims. It's the same thing he's said for the past four days.

Harry blinks. "You're not getting tired of it?"

"Never," he swears, vehement.

She laughs. "Well, alright then. Spaghetti and meatballs it is."

/

Tom has never felt so satisfied and content in his life. It's been many months now, and he can scarcely remember his life before Harry. Not with any clarity, at any rate. He still feels the pang of fear at the idea of all that loneliness, and a niggling worry that Harry will leave him that refuses to go away, no matter how often Harry assuages his fears.

He's still alone for most of the day—though he likes to wake up with Harry so they can have breakfast together—but now he has Spot to talk to, and so many books to read. And if he doesn't want to do either of those he can always go outside and explore. Harry warned him not to go too far, because the neighborhood might be safe but they still lived in a city. That was what Tom loved about it though; it wasn't as big as New York City, but it was his oyster to explore and play in. There was always something going on in it. It was very hard to get bored here.

Still, he's equally as excited about leaving these long, endless days for school. Like Harry, he's going to be gone for most of the day too. It makes him feel rather grown up and adult-like.

He gets a little nervous when the time finally comes for them to floo to his new school. He's never been to school. None of the children at the orphanage ever went. How does he know he'll like it? And what of the other children? Will they like him? More importantly, will he like them? They're all magical, so maybe he will. And he has a few friends in the neighborhood that aren't so bad. Maybe he'll be okay. Harry comes with him on the first day of term, to talk to all his teachers.

He finds himself growing incredibly shy at all the people conglomerated at the entrance. Some of the kids are a ways younger than him—some look a little older. Across the grounds he can see another big brownstone building, that Harry tells him is for the secondary school. Wolcroft even has a University, but it's not on the same campus.

All his classes aren't very big, but are still full of people he doesn't know. They all stare at him curiously when he walks in, so it's clear that they have all known each other prior to this day. He sticks close to Harry as he chances a glance at the class. They don't seem all that different from him. Harry is talking avidly to his teacher; a middle aged man with a boyish, open face. Tom hasn't even met him and he already doesn't like him, if only because he seems to be hanging on every word she says.

Harry has to leave eventually though, and with one last hug he is all alone in this strange new school.

"Is that your mom?" Whispers the girl next to him, the moment he sits down. She has a funny accent—that is to say, an even funnier accent than the normal American one—and big bouncy blonde curls, done up in twin pigtails.

"No," he replies. "She's my—" He pauses, suddenly. What is Harry? He's never had to describe their relationship before. "Guardian." He finishes, but even that doesn't feel right.

"Oh," says the girl.

"I like her hair." Remarks another girl, behind him. "It's so beautiful."

"Yeah," agrees the girl with the curls. "She's really pretty."

"Isn't she?" Tom enthuses as he smiles at them, feeling somewhat smug about their apparent adoration for Harry.

They nod readily.

Tom thinks he might end up liking this school.

By the end of his first class he already has friends, though this was from no input from him. As it turned out, being the new kid was fun, especially in a school where the children had known each other since kindergarten. They were incredibly fascinated with his British accent, and Britain at large. Tom didn't mind being the center of attention; actually he thinks he sort of likes it.

The two girls reveal themselves to be Ruth and Margaret. The only way he can tell them apart is by their hair; Margaret is blonde, and Ruth has short, straight brown hair. They both sound and act the exact same, so it's difficult to tell otherwise. They twitter around him for the entire day, poking at him at odd intervals and insisting that he sit with them at lunch. Worse still, they have a whole gaggle of fluttery girls that all ask him all sorts of stupid questions. He doesn't have a favorite color, and he doesn't care much for music or moving pictures.

Fortunately by the end of the day he has, once again with no effort of his own, found two boys who he can appreciate.

John Wesley, or Wesley, and Washy, which was a nickname the boy protested greatly but somehow ended up with anyway.

The girls are muggleborns, and Wesley says one of his parents is magical, making him a halfblood. Washy is a pureblood, and a descendant of George Washington himself; he says he hates telling people that because he hates being named after him—"Everyone in my family is named Washington," he mopes. "It gets really confusing sometimes. That's why they call me Washy."

They ask Tom, but Tom really doesn't know. "My mom was a pureblood witch," he replies, when they ask him about it. He pauses suddenly, thoughtful. "I don't know about my dad." He is reminded that he didn't actually ask Harry about his father; he'd been so enamored with the idea of being related to Salazar Slytherin that he completely forgot to ask.

The question has him on guard though. Harry had pulled him aside this morning as she fixed his tie, confessing to him that there are some prejudices against people based on if their parents were magical or not.

"Oh," Washy says.

Tom's brows knit. "Why does it matter?" He returns, defensive and a bit fearful. He doesn't want to lose all his new friends just after he met them all.

"It doesn't really." Wesley shrugs. And then, excitedly, "Unless he's like, super famous or something. Did you know Esther Pearl's dad is a moving picture star?"

"Who's Esther Pearl?" He blinks, as Margaret talks over him.

"So?" She challenges, hands on her hips. "My father is the President of General Motors." She reveals, haughtily. "And my mother's a moving picture stare too."

"Yeah, but she's not like a super famous one." Wesley retorts.

Margaret looks offended, and like she's about to go over there and ruin her school dress by wrestling Wesley into the mud. But then they are called to their next class; Curses and Enchantments. Tom takes one look at their provided text and is enamored at the very sight. The class is mostly introductory—as all of their classes have been so far—but Tom is simply excited to take home the book. It is a long and detailed history of many mythological artifacts throughout the ages, along with the enchantments upon them. Their teacher reveals that they will make their first enchantment by the end of term. Tom cannot wait. This is—magic. Finally. What he's been waiting for this whole time. Even these new children are irrelevant in the face of this new world.

By the end of the day he feels as if he might be a bit overwhelmed, but this is perhaps not a bad thing. He didn't know what to expect form Wolcroft, even after reading all the brochures Harry had given him to look over. It was certainly every inch as beautiful as it had looked in all the pictures; sprawling New England trees and manicured lawns; lovely fountains full of water sprites; gardens of fairy hedges with all sorts of little magical creatures residing within them—and completely dedicated to teaching black magicks.

He lights up when he sees Harry waiting by the entrance to the main receptional manor, along with quite a few other beaming parents. He sees quite a few of his classmates leap towards their parents, speaking a mile a minute as they apparate away or head inside to use the floo network. Tom had assumed he would simply take the floo back to his house by himself, because Harry normally had work this hour.

"Harry!" He beams at her, trotting over towards her side.

"Hi, Tomcat." She smiles down at him. "Did you have a good first day?"

"Yes." He nods, and then, excited, "Everything we're learning is so fascinating—and the children are nice."

This seems to take Harry off guard. "Well, that's wonderful." She regains her composure quickly. "I'm glad you're making friends. Maybe we could have them over some time?"

Tom frowns. "I don't know if I'd call them friends," he hedges; they're nice enough, but like the children in the neighborhood they're fun to manipulate—though he would never voluntarily keep their company.

"Bye Tom!" Someone shouts from behind him. He turns to see Ruth waving at him with a man he's assuming is her father, beaming as they walk out the front gates. He returns her farewell with a wave of his own and a strained smile. Behind her he can see Margaret waving as well as she walks with what appears to be one of her butlers, escorted into a long, nice-looking automobile. Washy is being reprimanded for something by his mother... along with all his other brothers, who are all—as he had griped—named Washington. They're much older though, and are probably from the secondary school across the lawn.

"Are those girls friends of yours?" Harry tilts her head.

Tom scrunches his nose. "Girls are weird." He reveals. Harry laughs aloud at that.

"Well why don't you tell me all about it at home?" Harry suggests. "Spot is getting impatient and very mopey without you."

This sounds like a fantastic idea. Tom nods eagerly, practically dragging Harry into the brownstone manor.

/

The days roll by, and Tom and Harry fall into a routine.

They wake up at eight and have breakfast together; normally some combination of toast and eggs, because Harry isn't all that good at making much else. Sometimes he can wheedle her into letting them have ice-cream for breakfast. Harry might act all grown-up, but she's still just a kid too, with no compunctions about having dessert for breakfast. Every time he thinks he's tried every flavor there is, they manage to find another one. Their newest expedition is blumberry chocolate chip.

Then he lets Spot out into the backyard with a whole bunch or rabbits Harry conjures, so he can get some exercise. Spot doesn't actually like exercise, but he's growing fat and could use the fresh air. Spot is an anaconda though, so sometimes Harry conjures a whole bunch of fish in the pond instead. Personally, Tom likes the rabbits better. It's always fun to watch the enormous snake lure them into a false sense of security before he strikes. The other neighbors have dogs and cats; they have an enormous, highly dangerous serpent. But their muggle neighbors can't see into their yard, so they'll never know the difference.

After that Harry goes to work, and Tom goes to school.

He hasn't managed to get rid of his annoying gaggle of girls, much to his dismay. Ruth and Margaret are okay, because they don't giggle and squeal at him when he talks to them. And Wesley and Washy are alright, if only because they don't talk much.

But it's not the other children that he likes about school; it's the classes. He loves each and every one, even the muggle ones, full of science and math. He doesn't mind learning about muggle history, or reading muggle books in english class. It is a small price to pay for the rest of his classes, where he learns all about magic of all kinds. He hasn't quite picked a favorite; he likes them all.

Alchemy is perhaps the most fascinating to him, because the potentials seem limitless. But like they learned in science class, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. One must always give something up of equal value to obtain what they want. It seems to be a running theme in his Alchemy and Blood Magic class. Balance is the key to life, he notices his teacher is very fond of saying. And it is also apparently the key to mastering the Dark Arts.

Necromancy is a close second, even though dead things sort of scare him. They learn Necromancy in tandem with Healing, as Necromancy has less to do with killing things and more to do with keeping them alive. After all, the world is full of dead things already—the trick to Necromancy is being able to sustain them. Tom is quite good at Necromancy, actually. One time he'd managed to resurrect all the dead mice in their backyard. Some hadn't been alive for hundreds of years, just wisps of bones, whittled away with time. Harry was horrified. Not because of the Necromancy and the whole dead stuff coming alive, but because of the dead _mice_. Harry doesn't like mice—she really, really doesn't like mice, to the point she gets mad at Spot when he doesn't eat all the ones in the house.

Tom is also very adept in his Curses and Enchantments class. To Harry's complete lack of surprise, he is at the top of all of his classes, but he has a special affinity for curses (also to her lack of surprise). Tom enjoys the class because he is so naturally good at it, but he's not sure if it's really his favorite. Curses are very dangerous things if misused, and enchantments are really cool in theory but not so cool in practice. They're very tricky and difficult to master, and it depends a lot on the object that the enchantment will be placed on. Tom would much rather just pay for something already enchanted than go through the tedious process of making one himself.

He wasn't all that fond of Shamanism and Conjuration, if only because his teacher seems to like Harry far too much. Whenever she comes to his school he always somehow manages to be around. The discipline has grown on him though; there is such an intrinsic, natural element to it. He hadn't realized you could tell so much from a mound of dirt. It was the great power of the ancient tribal leaders of the continent—more interesting to him though was that it was also the great downfall of them. He's so very fascinated with the idea of such a powerful civilization like the Mayans being wiped out by something of their own design. There is a great power to be found in nature, one that is perhaps far too powerful for humans to understand.

Tom enjoys school, this is true. But he'd still much prefer to stay with Harry.

He relishes the quiet moments when it is just the three of them, lounging in the living room, in bed, or at the breakfast table. He is almost always pouring over the dozens of new books he has for his classes; sometimes Harry reads as well, but most of the time she sits with her little folding metal box, and a great many papers all around her. She never lets him get too close to it though, insisting he's not yet old enough to know what it is. Tom would be more stubborn about this, but his school texts prove to be ample distraction. Spot likes to wind himself around the two of them, or curl up like a big, scaly rug by the fireplace. It's getting colder now, so he has become rather lethargic as of late. Lethargic—and petulant, always demanding them for more warmth.

He has also started conniving Harry into reading him bedtime stories. He proclaims that he is still young enough to need them, even though he can read proficiently at a level high above his age, and doesn't need a story to put him to sleep. Harry indulges him anyhow, and they read through many fantastical worlds full of fantastical characters. Tom enjoys the Tales of Beetle the Bard the best—most specifically the Tale of the Three Brothers.

"They're so stupid!" He exclaims, the first time Harry had read the story to him.

She looks down at him, curious. "Is that so?" She replies, quiet, and if he had been paying more attention he would have noticed something capricious in her tone. "Why do you say that?"

Tom scoffs. "Well with dark magic you can't expect something without giving up something of equal value in exchange—everyone knows that! They should have never taken that offer; with objects like that, of course they would pay with their lives!" And then, snorting; "They deserved to be tricked if they were really that stupid."

Harry runs an affectionate hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, leaning into it. "But everyone doesn't know that, Tomcat."

He harrumphs. "Everyone in my class does. Even Wesley, and he's super slow and always manages to blow everything up. That's the first rule of... of—everything!"

Harry laughs softly. "Maybe in your school, yes. But you must know Tom, not everyone learns the same kind of stuff you do. You go to a very special school, even by Magical standards."

"That's not true," Tom insists. "Everyone says the Salem Institute of Magic is so much '_better_' than we are."

"That's just school rivalry." Harry waves off. "Anyway, the Founders, Wolcroft and Bassett, were also Salem Witches—both schools were founded by essentially the same group of women. One isn't better than the other. They're just... different."

"I guess," he bites out, reluctant. In his hands he twirls his wand round and round.

He likes to feel the wood in his hands. It reminds him that this really is his life—that he's not in a dreary orphanage halfway across the earth, dreaming up this illustrious new world. Eleven-inches, Birchwood. They had spent ages in the store as he deliberated between this one and another wand; twelve-inches, sycamore, with a core of Basilisk poison. Harry had seemed very surprised when he chose this one in the end. ("_Birch symbolizes truth, new beginnings, and cleansing of the past to the ancient tribes of the plains_," said the wandmaker, after he had made his decision: "_Sycamore symbolizes ambition_.") He liked it, even though it wasn't at all like the wand he'd seen in England.

"I'm very proud of you, Tom." Harry murmurs, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Thank you," he replies, flustered for some reason he can't place, and feeling something warm envelop him at her words.

"You're learning such amazing things," she sighs into his hair.

He flushes. "So—so does everyone else in my class." He insists, weakly. Normally he'd love to boast about his apparent prowess in academics, but with Harry he feels bashful.

"Not that," she smiles into his hair. "There are far more lessons to be learned than those in the classroom."

Tom frowns, not entirely sure what she means. But he is also very sleepy, and she is very warm, and the bed is very soft. It is a matter of moments before he is dozing in her arms.

* * *

><p><em>was this the direction you were expecting? XD I really like fleshing out a whole different part of the magical world.. but I can't wait until Tom takes his new skills to Hogwarts<em>

_*those really are the native american meanings of birch and sycamore_


	3. Chapter 3

**crawlersout**

/ 3 /

Tom returns from school one day to see Harry home early from work, cursing at something as he hears a loud crash. He rounds the bend from the living room into the open space of the rest of the first floor, seeing Harry in the sitting room by the front door, with a tall, somewhat lopsided fir tree.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight.

A Christmas tree.

They hadn't celebrated much last year, mainly because Tom was still getting used to living with Harry. It was a very quiet event; he sat by the fireplace and picked out all the furniture for his bedroom from dozens of magazines with the brightest pictures he'd ever seen, of illustrious, finely decorated rooms. His birthday was equally as quiet; just the two of them celebrating with a little cake and a few presents, more winter clothes and books.

This was the first time Tom had ever had a Christmas tree before. They'd never bothered with one at the orphanage.

It isn't at all like the ones he's seen in picture books; it is not fat and stout, but disproportionately tall and prone to leaning to the left. Still, it's his Christmas tree, and he and Harry decorate it with all sorts of fun magical decorations. Harry strings up thousands of little white lights around the boughs, and Tom chooses very pretty silver baubles to hang on the eaves, all in marvelous shapes and sizes. After that, Harry waves her wand and dozens of snow fairies come to nest in the branches. By the end of it, it is the most marvelous thing Tom has ever seen. He never saw much use in getting worked up for Christmas, but he finds himself seized with an unbidden excitement this time.

As the days grow colder and colder, and the breathtaking New England autumn gives way to a snowy New England winter, the presents beneath the tree grow in number and size—until one day, Tom turns to look at it and is shocked to see how many there are. They all sparkle underneath the Christmas lights, wrapped in luxurious bows and captivating, luminescent wrapping paper. His eyes light up with wonder as he nears, crouching low at the tree.

They are not all for him: a great deal of them are for people he doesn't know. But that isn't to say there isn't a fair amount with his name written on the tag in a lovely, familiar scrawl.

Tom only has one gift for Harry, and he hopes she likes it.

It's nothing special—probably nothing at all like whatever lies in wait for him behind all that shiny wrapping paper. They had taken a break this month from soul enchantments to create Christmas cards for their parents. Tom was dismayed and outraged; he was very fascinated with the idea of enchantments solely based around the soul. Gems that could capture the souls of others—lacquered cabinets that, when opened, could suck your soul out. They weren't in kindergarten! They were far past the age to be making arts and crafts. But he quickly changed his tune when he realized this was an excellent opportunity to make something for Harry.

The whole ordeal actually ended up being quite informative; he learned many new charms and enchantments, and used quite a few of them on his card.

Harry returns from work one day to say that they were making a return trip to Diagon Alley for Christmas shopping. Tom leapt at the chance to return to London—and perhaps find another worthy gift for Harry.

"Can I do it this time?" Tom asks, rushing over towards the fireplace and reaching for the floo powder. Tom goes to school everyday using the floo, but he's never done it internationally.

"Well, alright," Harry acquiesces, sounding unconvinced.

Tom doesn't wait for her to change her mind. He throws the floo powder in. "Diagon Alley!"

He reappears at a somewhat familiar pub, after what seemed like at least a few minutes. He was actually starting to worry that he might have done something wrong. It seemed to work alright though, for he didn't seem to be missing any limbs. He could have spelled them back using a bit of blood magic anyway, he thought proudly. Or at the very least, he could ask his professor to do it for him when he got back.

Harry ducks gracefully out of the fireplace soon thereafter, adjusting her scarf and brushing a bit of dust off her coat.

"That worked out rather well," she grinned at him, before they exited into the alley.

"Harry," he starts slowly.

"Yes?"

"Do you think I could go to stores on my own?" He asks in a rush. "I, um—want to get presents for my friends."

Harry blinks. "Well sure, of course." She pulls out a little pouch from her bag. "Don't worry about the amount; it's connected to a vault."

His eyes widen when he opens it and peers in.

"Don't go crazy now." She laughs, tousling his hair. "And meet me back in front of the ice cream parlor in an hour, alright?"

"'Kay." He is already racing up ideas for what to get her, darting out into the crowd.

/

Tom may have gotten some time alone to shop for Harry's Christmas gift, but that didn't mean he was anywhere closer to figuring out what he was even going to get her. He ponders this as he peruses the Alley, peering into windows as he wanders by. Every display totters with mystical items in an array of catching colors; most of it is junk, all of it is utterly fascinating, and none of it is stuff Harry would appreciate. He's not entirely sure what Harry would appreciate, but he knows it's not bat-eyes, or moon globes.

Fortunately his answer comes quickly enough, once he ends up following his nose. It is a patisserie, and Tom has a great fondness for anything copiously decorated in sugar. More to the point—so does Harry. She has been attempting to bake for the better part of the year, and it hasn't been working out all that well. There's a gift set of magical cooking ingredients, pots and pans and a cookbook that might actually help her in that quest.

He's quite satisfied with it, all in all, and he has more than half an hour to wander about the Alleyway in earnest.

Tom manages to get himself quite lost when he takes a wrong turn down a quieter street, and ends up spitted back out in a far more foreboding section of the alley. He feels as if Harry may have warned him at some point about their being a far shadier part of Diagon Alley, but he can't recall what she had said. And all his reservations are completely dashed away when he comes across a store front with _The Coffin Shop_ in shoddy letters upon a tottering wooden sign—it is entirely dedicated to Dark Art materials related to raising the dead. How wonderful; they don't have anything like this in Boston. The closest Necromancy shops he knows of across the pond are all in the arid deserts of the native American tribal lands.

He finds the shopkeeper quite amenable, if not a bit wary at his age.

"Where's your Mum, little boy?" He scowls, when Tom walks in. "Don't want to get lost now, do you?"

"I'm not lost," Tom insists, looking around. There are vials and vials of blood, some far older than others; potions in glass bottles; withered limbs and knives and instruments made in a variety of metals, and an overpowering smell of death. It is all quite familiar and reassuring. "Is that a signet of the locust?" He peers into a glass case.

"It is," replies the shopkeeper, frugally, eying him with consideration.

"Oh." Says Tom. "It's quite lovely. Do you have any spinal shivers?"

The old man points across the shop, where fine bones are laid out by size and structure. Tom takes a look at those, before his eyes catch on the many Necromancy staffs bolted to the wall. He eyes them longingly, wondering if Harry would get mad if he bought one of those—they certainly look pricey. But then, he might not even be allowed to; if they wouldn't sell him a wand at ten, why would they sell him a necromantic staff? There are also enormous Necromancy chests and ritual tables which he'd love to get his hands on. They have a few at school, but they're not allowed to use them without supervision.

He decides to refrain from trying his luck on any of them, if only because he doesn't know how he would lumber one of those home. He does buy the locust signet though, because he's been having trouble raising swarms and its supposed to act as a far more stable locus of magic than drawing out a rune. The shopkeeper approves.

He's just exiting when he bumps right into someone.

It is a boy perhaps around his age, with a fine nose and coiffed hair, and a very foul expression.

"Watch where you're going," he snaps.

Tom eyes him warily, annoyed, and not in the mood to apologize to a petulant brat. "You watch it," he scowls back.

The boy's eyes turn livid. "You can't talk to me that way!" He shouts, imperiously. "Don't you know who I am?"

Tom's mood sours further. "No—and I don't care."

"You don't, do you?" the boy seethes, giving him a long once over. "But of course you wouldn't know, yeah?"

Tom blinks, taken aback by the violent change of tone.

"I bet you're a disgusting, filthy, _mud_—

But he doesn't get to finish. The cobbled ground beneath him splinters apart, and an enormous, skeletal hand made from dozens of dead things woven together erupts out of the earth and grabs him by the torso. The intricate claw moves in tandem, ripping the boy off the ground and holding him aloft. Tom smiles. The signet really does work. The complex ligaments are made from a variety of things out of the ground, though to his dismay he still has to work on the wrist joints; it looks as if it is about to crumble apart, waving the boy in its grasp at a very odd angle.

The boy's blood-curdling scream is loud enough to attract the attention of the whole alley. Tom glances around at their shocked faces, waving his wand to drop him. He falls unceremoniously to the ground, and the hand crumbles apart, retreating back into the earth.

"I'm Tom Riddle, by the way." He greets, happily, in a far more pleasant mood after that. He should have gotten a signet far earlier—no wonder Necromancers are so fond of them... he wonders what the Inca and Mayan ones must be like; he's heard they have some amazing properties...

The other child looks far less sure of himself now that he's been halfway crushed to pieces by a creature made from dead things, and is staring at Tom as if he hasn't ever seen him before.

"How old are you?" He demands, righting himself on shaky legs. He looks far less confident now, though he attempts it anyway.

"Nine," says Tom, matter-of-fact.

He looks scandalized. "You can't have a wand! That's illegal! You're not even in school!"

Tom frowns. "I am in school." He refutes. "I go to Wolcroft's."

"Where's that?"

"In Salem."

The boy looks pensive for a moment. "The States?" He says it less like a question and more like confirmation.

Tom nods.

"Ah," and suddenly he looks quite amiable. "That explains it then. I guess you wouldn't know." He sticks out a hand. "Oswald Lestrange."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Oswald." He takes the proffered hand, and smoothly lays on the accent. "Like I said, Tom Riddle."

"You're a Necromancer, then?" Oswald's eyes light up, and Tom smirks.

"Not really," he drawls, casual, sticking his wand back in his pocket. "It's just one of the electives they teach there."

"They teach Necromancy?" His eyes grow very wide and excited.

"They teach all the Dark Arts," he remarks, off-handedly.

This most certainly gets his attention. "Is that so?" He replies, attempting indifferent but missing by a mile. His eyes are alit with a greedy hunger; Tom doesn't like the look of it. "You're really something, Riddle." He decides, at length. "I like you."

Tom cannot find it in him to care all that much what one spoiled pureblood thinks of him, and shrugs indifferently. "Thanks," he says, because he is also not a fool, and knows better than to burn bridges just for the sake of it. "Are you in school?" He adds, on a whim.

"Not quite," Lestrange sniffs. "But almost. I've only a year left."

"Oh, me too." Replies Tom. "For Hogwarts that is." He spares the other boy a magnanimous smirk. "I find it rather daft, don't you? It's only in Europe they start school so late... did you know the Babylonian Institute of Magic starts at birth?"

"Do they _really_? Oh but yes, very daft indeed." Lestrange agrees. "But my family has been schooled at Hogwarts for generations; it's the principle of the thing, you see. It's practically in our blood."

Practically in his blood? Tom's smirk grew. Oh, if only he knew...

"Are you to attend as well?" Lestrange cocks his head appraisingly at Tom.

Tom makes a grand show of nonchalance. "Dunno," he shrugs. "We'll see if it's up to par—I hear they don't teach any of the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."

Lestrange tosses him an arrogant look. "Well, not all of us need to learn it at an institution, if you know what I mean..."

Tom's eyes narrow. "I'm sure." He remarks, snappish. "Well, I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. But it was a pleasure, Lestrange."

The other boy's eyes gleam in the sunlight. "And you as well, Riddle."

/

Harry sighs, watching him disappear into the ebbing tides of Christmas shoppers. He's still just a boy, not even ten years old yet—it's completely natural for her to worry about him.

But then, he may be just nine, but he is by far a more talented wizard than any adolescent she has ever encountered—perhaps even some grown wizards. And he is far from defenseless, she reminds herself. She has no doubt that Wolcroft has been teaching him all sorts of deadly curses, but perhaps she had been right in her prior assumption. Tom shows an almost unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts, but it seems to stop at that. Maybe he does know how to cast the most awful of black magicks; but he also knows the consequences of them.

It makes her smile involuntarily just thinking about it. He is already so grown up, and surprising her at each and every turn. There are so many signs that he is not the same boy he would have been had she not intervened—what he would have been without a soft touch, without a caring hand to guide him, or a reassuring smile.

Even Ron and Hermione agreed, when she relayed her progress to them. How could they not, when even his wand seems to speak for itself?

"Vault Key?" Called the Goblin, as she stepped up the front of the line.

"Right here," she smiled. "It's a satellite vault for an account in America, is that alright?"

"Certainly, Miss—" The Goblin looks down. "Potter. My associate will lead you to your vault."

She nods gratefully at the little goblin, making polite small talk all the way down. The goblin looks at her oddly, but warms up after a bit. Harry likes making friends with strange creatures; you never know when you'll meet them again. Even her satellite vault has far too much in it—and that's to speak nothing of her vault in her own time. She vows to give away half her fortune to some kind of charity. She wouldn't want the kind of child who sat around and wasted away on their inheritance, anyway. She digs around, making sure there's more than enough money for Tom to spend on whatever Christmas gifts he decides on, before she leaves.

Tom is waiting for her when she remerges from the bowels of the bank. He looks in far better spirits than he had been prior, and is carrying a little brown paper package laced in string. He hides it behind his back when she approaches, a little redness to his cheeks when he looks up at her. Harry smiles down at him fondly, suddenly compelled to swoop low and kiss his nose. He wrinkles it in a token protest, stating he is far too old for that, but the pleased smile on his face speaks otherwise.

"You find what you needed?" Harry rubs a hand through his hair.

Tom nods, humming his assent.

He is still in a fantastic mood after trying out his new Necromancy artifact, and can't wait to go home and show Spot, and perhaps use it a few more times. He'll try for the backyard's dead squirrels this time, if only to appease Harry's wish to keep the dead mice dead.

/

Harry leans against the framework of the porch door, arms crossed against the winter wind. Tom is out frolicking in the backyard, wearing Spot like a toga, talking imperiously to his new friends. Around him are a lot of pathetic looking dead things, all clamoring for his attention. He calls them his bone minions—Harry isn't sure whether she is amused or appalled. He is not quite ten and yet he is already so far advanced for his age, surprising her at every turn. And not just in academics.

She doesn't regret moving here, enrolling him in Wolcroft's—starting this new life. It is more than worth it to see every lovely smile Tom turns her way, his shriek of laughter as he plays in the yard, his warm weight when she carries him to bed. Even now, watching him crouch in the snow; winter flakes drifting across his hair and nose; a little parade of dead squirrels dancing at his feet; she can't help the involuntary smile that finds its way to her face. Because the darkness in him is undeniable—and that is perhaps not a bad thing.

"Tom," she calls, and the boy turns around abruptly, all two dozen or so skeletal squirrel heads moving in tandem with him. "Would you like to open your presents now?"

"Yes!" Tom darts back towards the house. The squirrels crumble back into the fresh snowfall, before they are swallowed back into the ground.

She prepares them both hot chocolate, and settles herself by the Christmas tree, Spot on her lap.

She finds another smile lighting her face when Tom comes tumbling into the room, his eyes lit and wide as he scans through all the presents under the tree. She has some for the Weasley's and Hermione in there, and for other friends, but the majority of them are for Tom. Though she feels a brief pang of sadness at the idea of missing a Weasley Christmas, she is happy to spend it here with just her and Tom. Anyway, she can always go back for Boxing day.

"Any of them?" He clarifies, breathless, eyes big and wide with wonder.

Harry laughs. "Yes, well, the ones with your name on it at least."

He dives right in, going for—predictably—the largest one. The present lays far longer than it is wide, wrapped in sparkling blue paper that, upon closer inspection, has snowflakes that drift about on the paper, and a fat, fluffy silver bow tying it all together. He almost doesn't want to open it; it's so beautiful.

But his impatience gets the better of him, and then he is ripping it to shreds and staring down at the long, narrow box. He opens the lid and, if possible, his eyes grow even larger.

"A broom?" He says, darting his enormous eyes towards Harry. "Like the ones for the Quidditch team?"

"Yep." She grins. "Now you can try out for the team!"

Tom gives her a mild look of alarm. "Maybe not that… but it'll be nice to fly with Washy and Wesley—they're always talking about it. They don't shut up about it, actually."

"Your friends?" Harry tilts her head. And then, with a vague gesture, "The one with the hair, and the other with all the freckles?"

"Uh-huh." That is actually a very succinct and accurate description of them both. Though he wouldn't ever refer to them as 'friends'. They were growing on him though, as his general exasperation towards them has grown into a resigned exasperation.

Tom returns his attention to the broom in his lap, staring down at the fine wood as if he'd never seen a broom before. It wasn't that—it was just… he'd never been excited about Christmas, never felt this strange, wondrous thrill run through him as he tore through the wrapping paper, felt himself shaking with excitement, practically unable to wait to run outside and use it.

But of course he hasn't. He's never had a Christmas before. Or at least, not like the ones in the pictures.

"Tom?"

He jerks his head up. Harry is watching him with a flicker of concern lit upon her features; Spot is wrapped around her shoulders—or at least, a _part_ of him is, he's not sure where the rest of him is, probably under the couch again—she is wearing a most unsightly Santa Claus hat, another strange shirt with writing that she always wears to bed, a pair of scandalously short shorts and long striped socks; her hair is a artful mess and there's whipped cream on her nose and he has the sudden and overwhelming urge to run over to her and… and he doesn't know. But it feels like there is no air left in the room, and his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

It might not be the kind of Christmas's he's seen in picture books or fairytales; but he has Harry, who matters far more than any brood of siblings ever could, and Spot, who makes for better company than most people. It's not the picture perfect family; the husband, the wife, the sister and the brother and some mangy dog—but it's his, and that's more than enough. His heart squeezes in his chest, simultaneously feeling as if it will sink to the ground and explode out of his chest. He doesn't know what to do with the feeling; it scares him, even.

"What's wrong?" She frowns, lowering her hot chocolate.

He decides that anything is better than staying here, so he crawls over to her and throws his arms around her, burying into the warm skin under her chin; his favorite place. She catches him reflexively, setting her cup down just in time to catch his weight. Her hands rise to hold him steady; Spot slithers around her shoulders, brushing against Tom's hair. His nose burns, and he grips her tighter, probably _too _tight.

"_Tom_," she murmurs, and it almost sounds—panicked? "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

He makes an indecipherable noise.

"Did you… not like it?"

At this he vehemently shakes his head; that's not it at all. "I love it." He refutes, thickly.

"Oh." She breathes out a sigh of relief. "Well, that's good."

A hand draws into his hair, combing lightly. For some reason, it doesn't make him feel better right now.

"Tom… what is it?" She asks again.

And then, when he doesn't reply, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," is his muffled reply.

Harry pauses for a moment. And after a beat; "Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he denies. "I'm just… I…"

He swallows, holding her so tightly his arms are shaking.

_I'm just so happy_, is what he wants to say. And it is true, he is practically bursting at the seams with this overwhelming emotion—but as it grows into something uncontrollable, it is accompanied by a cold, hysterical panic. Because he knows that nothing this good will ever last. It can't. And the idea of losing it as soon as he'd found it is a prospect too horrifying to entertain, but an inevitable one all the same.

But perhaps he is so fearful for he _is _so happy right now, so content and warm and showered with affection—he has grown far too comfortable with it all. He doesn't want to believe in this reality, because if it crumbles he doesn't think he'd be able to live through it.

To his total horror, he finds that his eyes are wet, and even when he squeezes them shut something hot burns its way down his cheek.

"Oh, Tom," Harry chokes, holding him just as tight.

He finds with great dismay that he might actually be crying in earnest now. As a consolation though, Harry is not unaffected, murmuring into his hair; "_It's okay, Tom, everything's going to be okay,_" smoothing the hair out of his eyes, placing a quiet kiss at his temple.

It is a most awful affair; he's no idea why he suddenly starts bawling, as if he is some small, inconsolable and insensible child, but he is. He cries until his face is wet and ruddy and he can't dislodge any words out of the chokehold on his throat. He doesn't look up, clinging desperately with his arms wrapped tight around her, tiny hands fisting the material of her shirt. He doesn't think he_ can_ look up, and face the world that exists outside of the soft warmth of Harry's skin and the smell of quiet mist that clings to her. It all seems so terrible and he prefers to say here.

He has to acknowledge the existence of the rest of the world eventually though, but he waits until his tears have finally slowed, and he doesn't feel so horrible.

Harry gently pulls him away, just enough to tilt his face up and get a good look at him. He peers back at her, sniffling pitifully. She doesn't say anything, thumbing away the tears still gathered in his eyes, pressing their noses together in an eskimo kiss. He smiles slightly at that; it never fails to make him feel better. She doesn't say anything for some time, actually, even as he wiggles around in her lap until he's comfortable, and then promptly decides he doesn't want to leave. She doesn't make him either; she lowers them both to the floor, until he is still sprawled on top of her with his face in her neck, mindlessly enjoying the petting as she runs a hand through his hair.

They don't open any more presents that day. He feels exhausted after all that crying and all he wants to do for Christmas is crawl back into bed with Harry and sleep off the rest of eternity. So they spend it in bed, huddled together under heaps of blankets and pillows, and he dozes away the hours of milky daylight in the comfort of Harry's arms. Tom doesn't explain to her why that sudden crying spell came over him, and Harry doesn't ask. Tom doesn't think he could explain it, anyway. Not when he doesn't even know himself.

They open the rest of the presents the next day, and it is a happy, unmarked affair. He is enamored with all his new presents, though if he's honest with himself, he's not nearly as enamored with them as he is with Harry.

He doesn't think there is any Christmas present on this earth that could compare to her.

/

Tom stretches his arms as the teacher calls for the end of class, rolling his neck. He feels as if he's been hunched over his textbook for the better part of an hour—probably not an unfair assessment. Alchemy is just so fascinating; there are so many properties to learn, and so many ways to ruin it—Tom adores it all. It is such a finicky thing, less to do with Potions and more to do with fate and luck, but this is perhaps what Tom enjoys the most about it.

Margaret makes a grumbling, unhappy noise by his side. "I'm hungry," she demands, imperiously. "Why can't it be lunch time already?"

"The world doesn't revolve around you, you know." Washy retorts, but the girl ignores it.

"Why don't we have a picnic for lunch today?" Ruth suggests. "By the willow tree near the secondary school yard—with the pond? Maybe we can skate on it!"

"You'd probably just fall in," Wesley teases.

"I would not!" Ruth protests, hotly.

Tom sighs, wishing he could find a way away from these people. As it is, they all clamor behind him and trot diligently in his wake when he leaves the room. He has no idea why they all follow him around; it's fairly clear he doesn't like them all that much. They take all the seats around him when he sits down for their Conjuration class, attracting a gaggle of peripheral friends that all chatter with them—and him, unfortunately.

They shut up really quickly when Professor Oz walks in the room, all the girls sigh simultaneously as he greets the class. Tom scowls; what's so great about him anyway? He has stupid looking hair. He tells this to Washy: Washy agrees. But Tom thinks that might be because Ruth is also staring adoringly at their teacher, and Washy is staring adoringly at Ruth. But then, is Tom any better? Most of his distaste for the man comes from the fact he always seems to be around to talk to Harry whenever she's here.

Tom tunes them all out the moment Professor Oz starts talking. He might not like the guy, but he can begrudgingly admit that he always has something interesting to teach. They're learning to summon nature spirits, and he is explaining the concept of elemental affinities. Tom has read ahead, so he knows all about them. This doesn't make him any less excited for it though; he is very curious to see what his elemental sign is.

"Now I want each of you to take hold of this piece of paper," Professor Oz is instructing, as he walks around the room, handing out little sheets of innocuous looking parchment. "And on my mark, add a little twinge of magic to your paper."

Ruth's hand shoots up, flailing around wildly. "But Professor!" She cries "We don't know how to do wandless magic!"

_You_ don't know, Tom thinks smugly. He has already been practicing.

Professor Oz laughs. "Sure you do! You do it all the time!"

The class gives him a collective look of incomprehension.

"Well come now," he smiles. "What happens when you get very angry? Or very excited? Sad?"

"Accidental magic!" Answers Margaret.

"Very good Miss Buchanan." He praises, much to Margaret's utter delight. "That's exactly right. Accidental magic is just another form of wandless magic. I want you all to remember that feeling, and concentrate it onto your paper. Don't worry—it doesn't have to be very much."

There is a long silence as everyone attempts to do just that. By his side, Washy looks like he's about to turn purple in concentration. Ruth appears to have given up about three minutes in—or perhaps she just wants Professor Oz to sit next to her and instruct her through it. Tom managed to get his in the first minute; much to the utter surprise of absolutely no one. He had assumed he'd be one of the first to get it to work, but he hadn't expected his sign.

His paper shrivels up in a sizzling crack, and though it smokes in his hand there are no flames.

"Lightning," Professor Oz remarks. "Wonderful, Mister Riddle!"

He frowns down at his paper, before ferreting through his book to see what it means. Margaret's erupts into a burst of flames; she squeals in delight. Washy's explodes in his face in a splash of wetness. He turns to their chapter, skimming through the pages. Lightning is equal parts air and fire affinity. He's not sure what that's supposed to mean though. Fortunately Professor Oz gives up on attempting to personally tutor half the class, deciding it is a lost cause and stops walking around and begins to explain the meanings of nature signs in earnest.

"Having one sign over the other doesn't mean you're only capable of utilizing one," he lectures sternly. "So I don't want any of you to use this as an excuse. That said, your sign is your affinity; when summoning nature spirits of your sign or casting elemental spells, you will have an easier time of it than you will with the others. It's important to remember your sign; as you progress through your schooling and begin to cast more powerful and complex spells, you will want to specialize in spells of your particular sign."

Tom's eyes light up at the thought. The very idea of casting lightning bolts with his hands is making him want to run to the secondary school and beg one of the teachers to teach him. Wesley was telling him the other day that that's what Benjamin Franklin did. Except he electrocuted _himself _and ruined a kite or something. Or maybe it was the other way around? Maybe he can ask Harry about it. She might not know how, but she can most certainly point him in the direction of a book or two.

Tom glides through the rest of the class in a fantastic mood, practically buzzing with excitement. He vows to spend his whole lunch reading ahead and studying on natural signs and affinities.

He doesn't get the chance, because his schoolmates have accompanied him to his secluded spot.

Margaret is boasting about her parents once more, much to the annoyance of everyone else.

"No one wants to hear about your father again, Margaret." Wesley rolls his eyes. "You've told us this story a thousand times."

"I have not!" Margaret protests hotly. "And I'll have you know my father is—

"The President of something interesting." Washy sighs. "Yes, we know."

"What about you, Tom?" Wesley interrupts her, drawing the unwilling boy out of his book.

"What about me what?" He sighs, irritated.

"Your parents." He says. "You never talk about them. You have a Mom, right?"

"Harry's not my Mum," he replies. "She's my… my guardian."

"Oh." Says Ruth. "But you said your Mom was a witch."

"She was." Tom agrees. "She died when I was a baby."

"That's so sad…" Ruth commiserates, looking like she might hug him. Horrified at the prospect, Tom quickly averts the subject.

"But I wouldn't want to live with anyone but Harry. I like it like this. I don't want anyone else."

"It's just the two of you alone?" Ruth gasps as if he has said something quite scandalous.

Tom frowns. "Yeah. So?" He retorts, defensive.

"Harry's not married?" She presses, sounding completely shocked, and totally judgmental. "But she's so pretty—I bet she could have anyone in town. Even Mayor Hathaway, and he's _so_ handsome—did you see him in the papers the other day?"

"I did!" Margaret squeals. "Oh, he's such a _dreamboat_—

"Harry doesn't need to be married!" Tom snaps, alarmed at the very prospect. He doesn't care about the mayor, and even less his apparent good looks. The thought of Harry thinking anything like this is utterly horrifying.

"Yeah she does." Ruth insists. "She's a girl! How old is she?"

"Not old enough." Tom replies.

"Well she has to be older than eighteen—

"What does it matter, anyway?" Tom interrupts, exasperated and not at all okay with this change of subject. The idea of Harry and… and anyone, deeply disturbs him. Harry is his. He can't even contemplate the idea of her with anyone else without feeling ice cold fear wander down his back. Fear, and a pervasive, almost overwhelming anger. Burning so profusely it actually surprises him. He doesn't think he's felt this kind of fury over anything before.

"But how is she going to live without a husband?" Prods Ruth, looking genuinely (and irrationally) concerned. "Girls are supposed to get married! Girls take care of the house and the man goes to work and makes money and takes care of his wife."

"I can take care of Harry just fine." Tom rationalizes. "She doesn't need anyone to take care of her, or anyone to make money! Harry already makes money!"

Margaret's eyes grow wide. "Harry _works_?"

"Yeah," Tom nods.

"Where? Is she a store clerk?" Margaret continues.

"A sales lady?" Ruth adds.

"Neither!" denies Tom. "She works… at a bank."

"Oh, she's a bank teller." Margaret nods with solemn understanding.

"No," Tom scowls. "Not like that."

Margaret blinks. "Then how so?" She asks, innocently uncomprehending.

Tom bites his lip, debating. He's not entirely sure what Harry does either. He thinks she's remarked upon it once or twice, and he may have asked in passing, but nothing concrete is coming up. Except… "Investing," he says. Margaret makes a delighted noise. "She works at their headquarters, in the John Hancock building, y'know, the really big one in Copley?—

"_Everyone _knows that building, Tom—

"—And she does something super important. She has meetings all the time, and sometimes she doesn't get back until really late." He confides.

"That's so cool," Margaret breathes. "I want to be just like her! I want to have a job too—I don't want to sit around all day. I want to be Katherine Hepburn."

"Katherine Hepburn doesn't work." Wesley rolls his eyes.

"Yeah she does!" Margaret shrieks, incredibly offended. "She's an actress! A moving picture star!"

"Yeah, but not like _that_." Wesley retorts. "My dad works for a big bank, down in the Financial District. He's always on the telephone talking to people about important sounding stuff. And he always gets a lot of mail."

"She's really not going to get married?" Ruth presses, completely ignoring the new vein of conversation.

"No!" Tom replies, scandalized. "Never!" He decides, vehement. And that is a promise.

"Harry doesn't need to get married." He decides, imperious. "Harry has me."

And with that, he grabs his book and pivots smartly for the school building, deciding he's better off waiting in the classroom and reading his book alone.

/

The thought eats at him for the rest of the day, and onwards into the rest of the week.

Will Harry get married? Ruth is right; all girls get married. They get married and have babies and clean the house and cook and stuff—everyone knows that. But Harry isn't like other girls. Harry isn't married, doesn't have children, can't clean without an evanesco and burns anything she cooks. Though with her new book she's gotten a thousand times better at baking. Tom actually eats all the cookies before they've even been out of the oven for more than a half hour. And she doesn't stay at home; she has a job and she makes money and she's always working. If anything, she's not home _enough_.

But Tom is starting to realize… Harry isn't normal. _They_ aren't normal.

None of his peers still sleep in a bed with their parents. They don't beg and whine for bed time stories; they don't even like spending time with their parents at all, preferring to be out playing sticks on the street with their friends. In contrast, Tom hates most other children, adults, and even pets, and he would prefer to spend every single hour of the day with Harry if he could. Even by magical standards Tom and Harry aren't normal.

Regardless of all this, he doesn't want to give any of it up.

He mutinously clings to Harry all week, refusing to be far from her side, cuddling insistently when they sit to read after dinner, and demanding she pick him up and carry him to bed. Harry indulges him. She always does; Harry never withholds affection. And he never wants to stop having it directed towards him. Him—and _only_ him. Spot is okay. But no one else.

He's still clinging to her when they settle for bed that night. It is Friday, and though he is very excited to have her all to himself for Saturday, the thought is not enough to reassure him, or placate his sudden and besieging need to be close to her at all times.

And though she allows him to crawl into bed next to her, worming his way until he can wrap his arms around her neck and press his nose against her collar, she does call him out on it eventually.

"What's wrong, Tomcat?" She whispers into the early-evening dark, petting his hair.

He makes a noise of discontent, burrowing further. Spot slides over both of them. Harry makes an exasperated noise, kicking him back to the bottom of the bed.

"Tom," she murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

His fingers curl into the material of her shirt.

"I…" He swallows, suddenly unable to make any words rise from his throat. He feels a sting in the back of his nose, and grows angry at himself for being such a baby. He's already cried once this year—although maybe it counts as last year—and that's already one time too many. He's ten now! He's practically an adult! Well maybe not—but he's always prided himself on being very independent and mature.

She rubs his back reassuringly, not pressing further, simply waiting until he's ready.

Tom takes a breath. "Harry… are you—are you going to leave me?" He croaks out, desperate and quiet.

"No, of course not. I would never leave you." Is Harry's immediate response. And after a thoughtful pause; "What's got you thinking that?"

He frowns, sniffling. "But what if you get married to someone?" He returns.

Harry's absent petting stops.

"What if," he begins fearfully. "What if you find someone? Someone you like? Like—like Mayor Hathaway or that movie picture star—"

"Tom," there is a hint of amusement to her voice. "I don't even know who that is. Why do you think I'm getting married?"

"Well all girls get married." He points out, pushing away from his hiding place to look into her eyes. There is a tender affection, directed towards him. _Only_ for him. He loves this look; it reminds him of all the sweet and lovely things in the world, it reminds him of what's_ his_. Will this look one day turn to another?

"_All_ girls?" She raises a brow.

"_Yes."_ Tom emphasizes.

"Well that can't be true—

"It is though!" He cuts her off, mutinous. "Everyone says so—

"Who's everyone?"

He pauses, flushing. "Well…" he hesitates. "I dunno. Everyone at school. They all say that girls get married. I guess sometimes they can have a job and stuff, but they always have a husband."

Harry laughs. He's not sure if he's relieved or hurt by her nonchalance. "Well, not this girl. There's no need to worry about that, kiddo." She leans in to rub their noses together, smiling conspiratorially. Tom finds himself smiling back. "You'll always be my number one."

"Oh." He blinks. "Okay." He says, happily, placated with this answer, promptly returning to her warmth.

Harry draws him close again, running her fingers through his hair. He is warm, comfortable, and relieved after a long week of constant worry. Worry over nothing, apparently. Harry doesn't seem interested in any of that stupid stuff—or at least, not any time soon. And anyway, he'd never let it happen, he can at least be assured of that. Spot slithers his way back to them, draping his long body over them like a winding blanket, before he shoves his nose in between them. This time, Harry sighs in resignation and doesn't kick him out. Tom makes a noise of content; sleep finds him easily.

* * *

><p><em>Oh man, I hadn't expected so many people to want to see Tom stay at this school! On the one hand, I agree that it would certainly suit his need for the Dark Arts better, but I do want him to go to Hogwarts... I like the idea of summer school, for sure. I couldn't imagine Tom sitting idly for so many months anyway. <em>


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